


The Atchin Tan

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pissy Musician Steve, Romani Bucky, Sea Shanties, Smut, Working at festivals is less fun than you imagine, music festivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 62,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7639408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey Barnes, you there?"<br/>He unclips the walkie talkie from his belt.<br/>"Yeah, Nat. What's up?"<br/>"Your pretty boy is scrapping with the other artists," he can hear the smirk in her voice.<br/>"He's not... Fuck. Where is he?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isle of Wight Festival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinlinli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinlinli/gifts).



> So it came up in conversation that I used to work security at music festivals, so Jinlinli insisted I write this.  
> In this fic Bucky is Romani, because there's not enough of us out there. (and I will talk at great length as to why I headcanon Bucky as Roma at the slightest provocation)
> 
> All terrifying festival anecdotes are real. I was there, folks.
> 
> A thousand thanks yous and well written blow jobs for my fabulous beta Eidheann. I love you something awful!
> 
> Atchin Tan - Camping place

Bucky jerks awake as the train pulls into the station. He grabs his backpack and scrambles onto the platform, taking a moment to work out where he is. Southsea. He hefts his backpack onto his shoulder and walks down the platform to the exit. He wanders along the line of bus stops until he finds the Hoverbus terminal and props himself on the metal bar that passes for a seat.  
He mentally checks through his possessions while waiting for the bus. A tent that probably needs airing out as he packed it in the rain back in Warwickshire. Clothes, mostly clean thanks to a few hours dozing by the machines in a humid laundrette in the midlands. Toiletries (Toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, battery powered shaver). Phone, keys and wallet. A bag of apples and a handful of energy bars are stuffed in the bag, as well as a few squashed toilet rolls. He rubs his eyes. A bath and ten hours of sleep wouldn’t go amiss.  
The bus pulls up and he hands over his money, dumping his bag on the seat next to him and sitting down with a sigh. The festival season had been going on for a month and he is already exhausted, and there is still the summer to come. He runs his fingers through his hair and wonders, not for the first time, if he’s getting too old for this shit.  
He stares out of the window at the coastal town moving past, eyes unfocused as the Southsea hoverport comes into view.  
He descends the steps from the bus, dragging his backpack up onto his shoulders and walks down to the ticket office. He buys a return ticket to the Isle of Wight and makes his way over to the boarding area, crossing the concrete landing and climbing the ramp on board. He stows his backpack in a luggage rack at the rear and sits in one of the uncomfortable chairs. The journey is short, around ten minutes, and the sea is relatively calm so no one starts heaving over the sides. He hums to himself, snatches of old workers songs and laments sung in the dark.

_Rock a down Romanish fake to the bosh_  
_A box of good tools to the borer gav ___  
_Kirter pray and mandy kan lassum ___  
_The borer rye a vater and landy ___  


The hovercraft docks at Ryde and he picks up his backpack and follows the road down to the bus stop, where he catches a bus to the festival site.  
It is nearly deserted when he arrives, but for a security gate and a few portacabins. A bored looking guard with a walkie talkie is stood at the gate. Bucky glances over at him. He holds up a hand in recognition and the guard waves back. He walks over to the portacabin, where a slim, red haired woman is bent over a flimsy desk, sorting through paperwork.  
“Hey, Natasha,” Bucky says, setting down his backpack.  
She glances up and smiles at him, her expression relieved.  
“Bucky fucking Barnes, you are a lifesaver!” She comes around the desk and throws her arms around him. He hugs her back.  
He’s known Natasha Romanov for nearly ten years. She is fierce and efficient, but run ragged by the stoned volunteers the security company always dump on her at festivals.  
“I swear, they’re sending me children. I should check they have permission slips,” she grumbles in his ear.  
He laughs and loosens his grip.  
“Scheduling?” He asks with a smile.  
She rolls her eyes at him and leads him back to her desk which is spread with lists of workers and schedules. She rearranges the papers with a sigh.  
“Half of the little fuckers haven’t shown up yet. And I’ve still got to figure out the weekend set up”.  
Bucky rifles through the papers, taking a quick look at the list of security staff and the additional volunteers. All security staff are assigned an eight hour shift each day, and volunteers work three eight hour shifts over the course of the festival. Festival set up begins Wednesday and the festival itself starting Friday and ending Sunday. Volunteers can show up early to get their three shifts done before the festival starts, but not many seem capable of planning their lives that far in advance and it’s a miracle they show up at all. Bucky glances at Natasha. It’s only Tuesday and she already looks ready to murder someone. He checks each sheet, twenty four hour security on the main stage, main gate and venue. The ticket office and additional stages only require security when open, the marquees being closed up when not in use.  
“Okay, you want me on main gate for tomorrow and Thursday?” He mutters.  
Natasha nods at him. The main gate is easy enough, no one gets through without a security pass.  
“So… I can do ticket office Friday? And take a shift on main stage Saturday and Sunday,” he says softly.  
Natasha throws an arm around him. He’s picked the shitty jobs, he knows. The ticket office on Friday will be bedlam, and the main stage Saturday is a special kind of hell. But it’ll be worse if they have someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing.  
“Have I told you how much I love you, Barnes?”  
“Not recently,” he says with a laugh.  
She hands him a walkie talkie and a security pass. He pulls the lanyard over his head and clips the walkie talkie to his jeans.  
“You know where backstage camping is?” she asks, glancing at his backpack.  
“Same as last year? Yeah”.  
He picks up his bag and steps out of the portacabin.  
Natasha waves him off and he strolls over to the guard at the gate. He sticks out a hand.  
“Bucky Barnes,” he says with a smile. The guard grins and shakes his offered hand.  
“Luis, good to meet ya,” he responds.  
He likes Luis immediately. He is loud, cheerful and talks at a frenetic pace that Bucky can barely keep up with. He manages to catch that it’s Luis’ first festival, he’s very excited, has no idea what he’s doing and… something about Kool and the Gang. Bucky tells him to give him a shout if he’s stuck, gesturing to his walkie talkie, then makes his way through the gate and over to the campsite. 

Backstage camping is not glamorous by any means, but it does have a bit of privacy and its own toilets. The downside is the artists also camp there, so you’ll probably finish a shift and return your tent to find that Ash or Terrorvision have crushed it under the wheel of a campervan. He sets up his tent and dumps his belongings, pocketing his phone and wallet before heading over to the backstage bar.  
It’ll be another day before the stages are set up, the crew will be arriving throughout the day and on wednesday everything will kick into action. But the backstage bar is the first thing to be set up after the main gate. If Natasha is running security that means Clint will be running the bar, the two were thick as thieves.  
The bar is a fairly simple set up, a marquee with a divider separating the alcohol from those who want it. There are folding tables and chairs scattered around the floor. Behind the bar is a series of chillers, mostly empty, being filled with bottles and cans by a man with short, fair hair and a beleaguered expression.  
“Hey, Barton,” Bucky says cheerfully.  
The man looks up and grins at him.  
“Please tell me you’ve seen Natasha, she’s going nuts”.  
“Yeah, got it sorted,” he says.  
Barton tosses a bottle of beer at him and points a finger.  
“That is a one time only show of appreciation. Don’t go getting used to the free beer”.  
Bucky snorts and twists the cap off. He leans on the bar and watches him stack the chillers with bottles of lager and cider and coke.  
“Didn’t see you at Parklife,” Barton says.  
“Nah. Was in the midlands, Lunar Festival,” Bucky says and swallows a mouthful of beer.  
“Any good?”  
Bucky shrugs. It had been okay, not too big, not too crazy.  
He listens to Barton grumble about London, the price of beer and members of the public. He resists the urge to point out that Barton buys beer at a pound a bottle and sells it for three. He knows how bad overheads can be. Natasha radios in for help and he dashes off to the main gate to relieve Luis, whose replacement hasn’t shown up yet. Luis hangs around for a while and they talk. Or rather Luis talks and Bucky tries to keep up. He sends the guy off to eat and get some sleep, and gets relieved himself at midnight. He stumbles back to his tent, which isn’t crushed under the wheels of a campervan, and falls asleep in his clothes. 

He wakes up at 7am to the sound of generators and groans to himself. He buries himself further down in his sleeping bag and manages to doze for a few hours. He finally drags himself out of his tent and shambles to the toilets. Backstage toilets are a rare and precious thing at music festivals, having exotic features like sinks, water and even the occasional toilet roll. The festival goers will be stuck with portaloos and a couple of stand pipes signposted in the grounds. Bucky goes for a piss, brushes his teeth and washes his face. He rubs his wet face with his sleeve and peers at his reflection. Definitely too old for this shit.  
He heads back to his tent to change his t-shirt and then goes down to the field in search of coffee. The food vendors won’t show up until later that day, Thursday will bring the stalls selling overpriced tat and severely overpriced essentials. But some enterprising food truck will figure out that there is a field full of day labourers with limited options and a need for caffeine and show up early.  
He spots the burger van on the far side of the field and walks over, buying himself a coffee and an egg roll and sitting on one of the plastic chairs scattered around the van.  
He isn’t due to start work until midday and briefly debates going back to sleep. He decides against it, walking back to his tent to grab a bottle of water and his paperback, then heading over to the main gate to see what's going on.  
At the main gate is a guard he knows from previous festivals, Maria. She is small and dark haired with a sharp wit and sharper voice. Bucky settles against the gate and listens to her running commentary on everything that is wrong with life. He sends her off to get some lunch at midday and pulls his book out of his pocket. He picked up a copy of The Stars My Destination from a book stall at his last festival and starts reading. Gully Foyle has been captured by a cargo cult and had his face tattooed with tiger stripes by the time Luis is sent to replace him.  
He walks back to the main field and finds Natasha and Barton sat in deck chairs next to a noodle stand. He buys a portion of chow mein and joins them, picking the bean sprouts and flicking them at Barton while they watch the day labourers set up the lighting rig on the main stage. He eventually says goodnight and makes his way to the backstage camping area and remembers to take his boots off before falling asleep. 

The generators start up again at 7am, Bucky mutters under his breath and tunnels deeper into his sleeping bag. When the vendors start blasting music at 7.30am he grumbles some more. When the sound technicians start working on the main stage he upgrades from grumbling to swearing and gets up. He brushes his teeth, eats an apple and goes looking for coffee, finding Luis slumped on a bench next to a coffee stand staring at the main stage with a mild form of horror.  
“Too early, man,” he mutters. Bucky nods and slaps him on the shoulder.  
“Gets worse,” he says cheerfully.  
Luis looks at him in increasing horror.  
“How? Seriously how can it get worse?”  
Bucky collects his coffee and sits down on the bench beside him.  
“The main campsite opens today, so that field over there,” he waves at the other side of the festival ground. “That’s gonna fill with thousands of people. And stalls selling food and warm beer and overpriced crap And every single one of them will have a stereo or a PA system”. He waits for the information to sink in.  
“Tomorrow the festival will start, which means performances and DJing until 2am. And people will keep the party going until 4, maybe 5am. And at 7am the generators and the PA systems will start up again.  
“Oh god,” Luis mutters weakly.  
“Sleep when you’re dead,” Bucky says with a smirk. 

By midday he’s at the main gate again reading his book. It’s a fairly busy morning, and Gully Foyle has failed to blow up a spaceship when a VW campervan comes trundling down the road. A classic ‘65 Barbarossa campervan, Bucky thinks absently, beloved of hipsters and glampers and other terrible excuses for humanity. The van stops at the gate and Bucky straightens up, marking his page. He checks the window for a vehicle pass. Nope, nothing, and walks over to the tiny drivers window.  
There is only one occupant, tall, blond and blue eyed and, yes, gorgeous. It’s a miracle he managed to squeeze into the fucking van. Bucky runs a quick hand through his hair and flashes a smile as he winds down the window.  
“Hey,” he says, because the guy is cute and he’s not made of stone. “Need to see your pass”.  
The guy sticks his arm out of the window, he’s wearing a festival wristband marking him as an artist. He looks frustrated, probably because his little van, though pretty, can only reach 55 mph facing downhill and possesses a second gear in theory rather than practice.  
“You need a vehicle pass. Did they give you one at the office?” Bucky asks.  
The guy rummages around the papers on his passenger seat, an itinerary and festival map, but no pass.  
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters under his breath. Bucky leans on the door and watches him get flustered for a few minutes, he cracks a grin when blond guy turns back to the window to find him inches away and goes endearingly pink all over.  
“Can’t let you in without a pass,” he says softly, resting his elbows on the window frame.  
Blond guy stutters, and Bucky has a sudden urge to hook a finger into his shirt and see how far down the blush goes. He keeps his hands to himself and tries not to laugh at the guy, who has clearly never had another man flirt with him before and has no idea how to react. Looking the way he does, it’s a little bit of a tragedy, but he hasn’t gotten angry or defensive, so Bucky takes pity on him. He pulls out his walkie talkie.  
“Hey, Nat?”  
“Barnes, what's up?”  
“Got an artist missing a vehicle pass. Can you run one down?” he turns blond guy’s wrist around so he can read the name. Maybe he lets his fingers linger over the pulse point while he’s at it, suppressing a smile as the guy squirms but doesn’t pull away.  
“Steve Rogers. VW ‘65 Barbarossa”.  
He listens with barely contained amusement as Natasha expresses her opinion on the choice of vehicle, then promises to send someone down with a pass. Bucky clips the walkie talkie to his belt and turns back to blond guy. Steve.  
“Okay Stevie, vehicle pass is on its way. You can pull up over there,” he gestures to a patch of grass by the gate. “And keep me company a while”.  
Steve mumbles under his breath and struggles with the gear stick, finding reverse and painfully maneuvering the van onto the grass. He turns off the engine and sits quietly in the driver's seat, occasionally glancing furtively at Bucky, who leans against the fence post and goes back to reading his book. After several minutes Natasha comes trundling up the road in her golf buggy. She parks up and leans over the fence, handing the pass over to Bucky.  
“So is he cute,” she says with a smirk.  
Bucky rolls his eyes at her. She glances over at the campervan.  
“Oh, very nice,” she purrs, slapping him on the shoulder.  
“Fuck off,” he mutters affectionately. She laughs and gets back in her buggy, rumbling down the road to terrorise volunteers and riggers.  
Bucky saunters over to the van and leans in the window, dropping the bright yellow vehicle pass on the dashboard.  
“That’ll get you anywhere you want to go,” he says with a raise of his eyebrow.  
Steve flushes and drops his head. He mumbles a thank you.  
“Anytime, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, and yeah, he’s overdoing it but that blush is fucking adorable.  
He slaps a hand on the side of the van, making Steve jump, and saunters back to the gate. He unfastens the latch while Steve fails to get the van in gear, and holds it open while he drives through, tipping his fingers in a salute as Steve passes. He closes the gate and watches the van disappear down the road.  
James Buchanan Barnes, he thinks to himself. You are a bad, bad man. 

He gets relieved from gate duty and returns to the festival site. The stages are set up and rigged, the sounds towers are dotted around the field and the area is awash with food trucks and souvenir stands. He finds Luis at a burrito stall and joins him. The burrito is good, spicy without causing intestinal distress and doesn’t require remortgaging a house to pay for it.  
“Bucky, man, you didn’t warn me about the artists! Pissy little bitches,” he grumbled good naturedly.  
Bucky wipes his fingers on a napkin and takes a drink of water.  
“Didn’t want to spoil the surprise,” he chuckles.  
“Aww, seriously. Never meet your idols”.  
Bucky slaps him on the back and tells him about the time he called Van Morrison a fuckwit, which makes Luis laugh so hard he starts coughing.  
“You’re killing me, man. I can never listen to ‘Moondance’ again!” Luis fiddles with his can of coke. “This Rogers guy is a fuckwit”.  
Bucky raises his eyebrows.  
“Steve Rogers?” he asks quietly.  
“Yeah, you know him?”  
“Showed up at the gate in a van without a vehicle pass this afternoon,” he says.  
“Prima-fucking-donna. Barton was ready to punch him”.  
Bucky fidgets with his water bottle. The guy he had met had seemed shy and overwhelmed, not an asshole.  
“Not heard of him”.  
And that set Luis off. Six months ago Steve has been a busker, posting videos of covers and original material on Youtube and attending open mic nights. He’d been spotted, given a record deal and the Isle of Wight was his first festival.  
“When’s he playing?” Bucky wondered.  
Luis pulled out a schedule and spread it on the table in front of them, pushing burrito wrappers out the way.  
“Saturday 2pm, Garden stage” he glances at Bucky who flinches. “Is that bad? It’s bad. Is it bad?”  
Bucky nods and gathers up the wrappers to toss in the trash.  
“Dead time. It’s the festival graveyard slot. People are hungover from the Friday night or psyching themselves up for the headliners,” Bucky purses his lips. “maybe twenty, thirty people in the audience, and they’ll be talking to each other rather than listening”.  
Luis holds up a festival program.  
“Acoustic guitar, singer songwriter it says here”.  
Bucky draws in a sharp breath. No wonder the guy was freaked out. 

He heads back to his tent and tries to get some sleep despite the dull thump of drum ‘n’ bass from the surroundings. He wakes up at 8am feeling stiff and irritable. The backstage camping is more crowded, but nothing compared to the main camping area. He queues for the toilet, brushes his teeth and washes his face and returns to his tent to change his clothes. He fetches an apple and his book from his backpack and heads out in search of coffee.  
He finds Maria at the coffee stand, joining her in a plastic chair when he collects his order. She has met Steve and has a few choice words to say about him too. Bucky shrugs and makes no comment.  
He finishes his coffee and goes in search of Natasha, who is working her way towards a heart attack. Some volunteers have shown up, but have left their competence and accountability… well, fuck knows where. Assuming they ever had any. She dumps three volunteers on Bucky, who gives them a box of wristbands each and leads them across the field to the ticket office, a small white marquee with a line of tables across the middle and a few chairs. Unwashed public on one side, festival staff on the other. Bucky runs through the process with the volunteers, showing them what an official festival ticket looks like and how to process them and apply festival wristbands.  
He gets them in their chairs with their boxes of wristbands  & opens up the marquee.  
The afternoon is spent keeping the public in line and dealing with peddling crap, with the occasional entertainment in the form of mime artists and circus performers in the queue. There is little trouble to deal with, a couple of forged tickets and some first time artists who had come to the main entrance rather than the artists entrance across the field. At 8pm he closes up the marquee and packs up the last few wristbands. he sends the volunteers off to do whatever teenagers do for fun and heads back to the security portacabin to drop off the wristbands and ticket stubs.  
He’s signing off the items for Maria when Natasha radios him.  
“Hey Barnes, you there?”  
He unclips the walkie talkie from his belt.  
“Yeah, Nat. What’s up?”  
“Your pretty boy is scrapping with the other artists,” he can hear the smirk in her voice.  
“He’s not… Fuck. Where is he?” he says wearily.  
“Backstage bar. Barton is about to get him in a headlock”.  
“Alright, I’m on my way,” he mutters.  
It’s a short jog to the backstage area, and in the bar he finds Steve in being dragged off another artist, who is slurring and waving his fists around. Bucky can’t remember the guy's name, but he’s seen him pull this kind of stunt before. He hooks an arm around Steve’s waist and starts towing him towards the exit.  
“C’mon Steve, take it outside,” he says gently.  
Steve tries to wrestle out of his grip, not even looking at him.  
“What the fuck? Get off me!”  
Bucky gives him a shake and gets him to look his way. He sees a flash of recognition and starts pulling him to the exit again.  
“Come on, let's get you some air,” he says quietly.  
“Bullshit, you taking his side?” Steve snaps.  
Bucky shakes his head and pushes him out the doorway.  
“Not taking any side, Stevie”.  
Steve pulls out of his grip and takes a few paces across the grass. He turns to Bucky, red faced and furious.  
“You are fucking kidding me,” he yells.  
Bucky raises his hands placatingly.  
“Did you see his eyes, Steve?” he asks quietly.  
That stops him short.  
“What?”  
“Did you see his pupils? Huge”.  
Steve shakes his head, realisation dawning.  
“I figure you’ve had a few too many beers, but he could have taken anything,” he says gently.  
Steve shakes his head slowly.  
“He started mouthing off… I didn’t think,” he mutters.  
Jesus Christ, was he ever this naive? Bucky steps closer.  
“Come on, walk it off,” he says, making shepherding motions towards the main arena. Steve hesitates, then falls in step beside him. They walk across the field past the main stage, following the line of security fences along the perimeter of the festival site. After a few minutes Steve lets out a sigh.  
“The redhead..” he begins.  
“Natasha,” Bucky says quietly. “Head of security. Her name is Natasha. Guy holding you back was Barton”.  
He watches as Steve repeats the names to himself.  
“If you’re doing the festival circuit this summer, remember their names”. He glances at Steve. “They’re good people doing their job”.  
Steve kicks a clump of grass.  
“Is that fucker getting the play nice with others speech too?”  
Bucky snorts and shakes his head.  
“He’ll be getting a lecture on illegal substances at a private event, and site management will be trying to decide whether or not to kick him off the schedule”.  
Steve hums to himself, looking appeased. Then he suddenly shakes his head and looks annoyed. He glances at Bucky.  
“It’s… Barnes, right?” he says quietly.  
“Yeah. Call me Bucky”.  
Steve shakes his head again.  
“I never even asked. Fuck,” he mutters, looking chastened.  
Bucky grabs him by the sleeve and leads him over to the row of food trucks.  
“You wanna get some artisanal sourdough pizza?” he says playfully.  
Steve laughs and shakes his head.  
“C’mon Stevie. It’s got kale. Vitamins and iron”.  
Bucky presses a hand to his back and guides him towards the wood fired pizzas, ignoring his protests and ordering one with far more greenery than any self respecting pizza should contain. They eat cross-legged on the grass, bickering cheerfully about toppings. Steve finally gets to his feet and says goodnight, blushing when Bucky offers to walk him home. He walks off, picking up the pace when Bucky starts wolf whistling, and disappears behind a security gate. Bucky pulls out his book and reads for while under the floodlights. When Gully Foyle is imprisoned he closes the book and head backs to his tent to get some sleep. 

Bucky avoids getting up for as long as possible, since he has main stage duty from 8pm to 4am. He unzips his tent to keep it from getting too stifling, eats an apple and reads by the morning light. At midday he gets up to brush his teeth and change clothes, then goes for a walk around the festival, ending up at the Garden stage. He buys a coffee and a sandwich, and sits on the grass with the dozen or so other people.  
He is finishing his coffee when Steve appears on stage. He adjusts his acoustic guitar and mumbles into the microphone, takes a step back and starts to play. He isn’t the best guitarist, or even the best singer, but his voice is clear and he can carry a tune. There is a scattering of applause at the end of the first song, and Bucky joins in clapping. He watches Steve keep his head down, shy and self deprecating and nothing like the guy throwing punches and arguing loudly about pineapple on pizza the previous night. He quickly runs through half a dozen songs, keeping the between song banter to a minimum. Despite his obvious nerves he doesn’t screw up or play too fast, and the audience are not too loud or distracting. And Bucky may have spent ten minutes before he was due on nudging the louder and more obnoxious festival goers elsewhere. He finishes his last song and murmurs a thank you before disappearing off the stage.  
Bucky pulls his book out of his pocket and has only read a few paragraphs when Steve sits down on the grass next to him. He marks his page and flashes a grin at him.  
“How you feeling? Relieved?” he asks. Steve nods.  
“I didn’t fuck up. I don’t think,” he hesitates. “Did I fuck up?”  
Bucky shakes his head and shoves his book back in his pocket.  
“No, you were fine”.  
Steve looks disappointed and Bucky elbows him.  
“You’re no Jeff Buckley, but you were good”.  
Steve huffs a laugh at him and drops his head.  
“Can’t all be Jeff Buckley,” he says softly.  
Bucky watches him pull up tufts of grass at his feet for a moment.  
“What was the last one? The lyrics were different from the version I know”.  
“The Turkish Revelry. Yeah, it’s Loudon Wainwright,” he says awkwardly. Bucky nods.  
“I know The Golden Vanity,” he starts singing softly. 

_‘Oh great gold I would give and silver in store_  
_And my pretty little daughter who waits on the shore ___  
_If the Spanish gallee would trouble me no more ___  
_As I sail round the lowlands, low, low, ___  
_As I sail round the lowlands low.' ___  


Steve stares open mouthed while he sings. His voice isn’t anything special, but it’s soft and low. He grins at Steve, who still looks shocked.  
“What? I’m not that bad”.  
Steve just shakes his head and goes back to fiddling with the grass at his feet.  
“I’m just saying you have a good voice for sailor songs,” he says, flicking a blade of grass at Steve’s ear. He brushes it away.  
“What? Yo ho ho and a barrel of rum?”  
Bucky snorts and shakes his head.  
“It’s not all ‘what shall we do with the drunken sailor’. You got whaling and sailor songs and fo’c’sle songs, they’re the ones that tell stories. Like that one of yours”.  
Steve watches him talk, pressing his smiling mouth against his sleeve.  
“You know a lot about sea songs”.  
Bucky nods, suddenly looking wary. Steve nudges him with a foot.  
“What? Is this where you tell me you’re secretly a merchant seaman?”  
Bucky smiles and shakes his head.  
“Used to travel a lot as a kid. Did farm work, hop picking, fruit, that kind of thing. We’d take turns singing in the fields. You collected up songs and passed them on”.  
He gets up, brushing blades of grass off his jeans. Talking about it always makes him a little jittery, like someone is going to overhear and run him out of town.  
“C’mon, I need more coffee”.  
They find a coffee cart and wander around the festival. Bucky scratches out a list of musicians and a couple of music societies that specialise in traditional music. He also writes down his mobile number, because fuck it, and hands the scrap of paper to Steve. He goes slightly pink around the ears when he notices the number, but tucks the paper into his wallet and promises to look into the suggestions.  
They bicker cheerfully about food and Steve’s conviction that everything will probably give them food poisoning, but settle on burrito as Bucky has tried them already as is still breathing.  
“So I got a shift on the main stage in an hour,” Bucky says, picking limp lettuce out of his burrito and flicking it at Steve. He laughs and dodges it, flicking a jalapeno back, which Bucky plucks from his shirt and pops into his mouth.  
“You hanging around?”  
Steve fidgets with his wrapper and Bucky already knows the answer. People don’t hang around long on the SundayS, and want to get home. Bucky doesn’t blame them.  
“No, I’ve gotta get home,” Steve says quietly. Bucky knocks a foot against his leg.  
“You doing Glasto?”  
Steve grins suddenly and nods.  
“Well, I’ll see you there, then,” Bucky says softly.  
Steve fiddles with his burrito and nods.  
“You doing anything before then?” Steve asks.  
“Yeah, folk festival”.  
Steve raises his eyebrows. Bucky shrugs.  
“Here until Tuesday, then over to Uttoxeter for set up Wednesday. Same again for Glasto, though might stay on another day if they need help with the clean up. Then France for Les Eurockéenes, back in the UK for 2000 Trees,” he pauses and rubs his eyes. “Last one is in… fuck, here I think”.  
He sighs, feeling tired just thinking about it. Steve folds up his empty wrapper.  
“You going to be at Latitude?”  
“Yeah. You’ll be sick of the sight of me by September,” Bucky says with a smile.  
Steve shakes his head, more to himself than anything. Bucky gets up and drops his wrapper in the trash.  
“Duty calls. I’ll see you in a few weeks”.  
Steve follows suit, wiping his hands on his chinos. Bucky watches him fidget for a moment before pulling him into a one armed hug. Steve hugs him back.  
“Been good to meet you, Bucky,” he says quietly.  
He lets go and Bucky takes a few steps back, keeping him in sight.  
“If you can’t find me, just ask at security,” he grins. “Don’t go punching guys and hope I come to the rescue”.  
Steve snorts and waves him away. He snaps off a smart salute and walks over to the main stage. He finds Luis already there, practically vibrating with delight about seeing Pharrell Williams 

As Saturday nights on the main stage go, it’s pretty relaxed. No one tries to storm the stage or throw bottles of piss at Blur. He has to stop a few crowd surfers and pull a couple of dehydrated and over emotional teenage girls out of the crowd and hustle them over to the first aid for water and a lecture on personal safety, but mostly it’s just keeping people from crushing themselves against the barriers. The photographers from the national press keep getting underfoot and he has to resist the urge to kick them a couple of times. The noise is the worst part, the dull thumping bass that is felt through his skin rather than heard gives him a pressure headache right behind his eyeballs. He finds it hard to get too annoyed with Luis for company, who is having the time of his life dancing along and getting members of the crowd to join him in impromptu dance routines and Mexican waves.  
At 11pm the final act leaves the stage and the DJing starts up. The crowds slowly disperse, making their way to the dance tent and chill out zones. Bucky slumps against the barrier and watches the roadies clear the stage. When the shift ends even the most dedicated clubbers are stumbling to their tents. He bids goodnight to Luis and makes his way to his tent, remembering to kick off his boots and check he’s in the right place before passing out on top of his sleeping bag. 

He wakes up late on Sunday and stumbles through his morning routine, heading over to the bar to check in on Barton. The area is quiet, but for a couple of artists and journalists determined to drink their way out of their hangovers. Barton tosses him a can of soda and he gulps it down gratefully. Natasha appears, looking less harassed than the last time he saw her. Sunday is the quiet day, people are winding down from the weekend or nursing hangovers, so her workload has eased up. They talk work for while, while Bucky is in Uttoxeter Natasha and Barton are in London for a festival.  
“You wanna come along?”  
“Fuck Klezmer,” Bucky mutters.  
Natasha laughs. He’s pretty sure she schedules Klezmer events every summer just because Bucky has such an issue with it. He hauls himself to his feet and heads for the exit, loudly singing ‘Gelem, gelem’ as he goes. He grabs something to eat and walks over to the main stage. He’s paired up a guard, Rollins, who he’s worked with a couple of times. Bucky is under no illusion about what some of the guards in Natasha's employ think about him, and she keeps them separate as much as possible. Rollins isn’t the worst of them. He’s still an asshole, but they keep the conversation to a minimum and get on with work.  
The crowds are smaller, with more people sprawled on the trampled grass than standing at the barriers. The campsite across from the field is slowly clearing out as people with work tomorrow pack up and leave. At 10pm the stage empties and the crew start packing up. Bucky walks back over to the bar at the end of his shift. He finds Maria and Barton propping up the counter and joins them for a couple of drinks before returning to his tent. It doesn’t take long to work out why he feels out of sorts. He pulls out his phone and checks for messages. Nothing from Steve. He does his best not to feel disappointed, pulls off his boots and goes to sleep. 

He gets up early, the campsite quiet and nearly deserted. He grabs a change of clothing and heads for the showers, rinsing away the long weekend of dirt and grease with tepid water. He dresses while damp, brushes his teeth and shaves. After a cup of coffee and his last apple he feels halfway to normal. He watches the day labourers break down the stages, then goes to the main gate for his final shift.  
He spends most of his shift reading. Gully Foyle reinvents himself, takes up yoga and jaunts through space and time. Bucky thinks that Foyle is an asshole, but keeps reading anyway, pausing occasionally to let food trucks and vendors with their stalls and merchandise through the gate. Luis comes ambling up the hill and speed talks at him for a while. He mostly keeps up with the conversation, and is happy to hear that Luis will be working Glastonbury.  
When he returns to the festival site, the sound towers and stages have all been dismantled. He packs up his tent and hands in his walkie talkie to Maria at the security portacabin. She hands over his wages, gives him a docket to sign and manages to wrangle him a lift into Ryde with one of the caterers.  
The food truck drops him off by the Hovercraft dock and he walks along the sands for a while. He sits on the beach and watches the tide. He hums under his breath, snatches of old workers songs and laments sung in the dark. 

_Rock a down Romanish fake to the bosh_  
_A box of good tools to the borer gav ___  
_Kirter pray and mandy kan lassum ___  
_The borer rye a vater and landy ___  



	2. Glastonbury Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The three faces of Steve Rogers,” Bucky murmurs, not quite awake.  
> Steve glances over at him and makes an enquiring noise.  
> “Natasha think you’re a pissy little shit who starts fights all the time,” he begins.  
> “I do not! I just don’t like bullies,” Steve mutters defensively.  
> “To the audience you’re shy,” Bucky persists. He pokes him with his foot. “I like this you,” he says simply.  
> Steve is quiet for a moment, fingers still on the guitar strings.  
> “I like this me too,” he says softly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, it's Chapter 2!  
> Here be smut. And angst. Consider yourselves warned.
> 
> At the Atchin Tan (At the Camping Ground) is a traditional Romani song. You can find a version sung by Mary Ann Haynes on youtube.
> 
> You can find me at thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com if you're so inclined

Bucky catches the train to Castle Cary early Wednesday morning. He alights the train and heaves his backpack onto his shoulder as he makes his way out of the station and over to the bus stop where he sets his bag down and sits on the bench. While he waits for the shuttle to take him to the festival site,, he runs through the contents of his bag. Tent, dry for a change. Sleeping bag. Toiletries. Clothes, cleaned yesterday in a laundrette in Uttoxeter. Cereal bars, a bag of apples, a bottle of water and a copy of Perdido Street Station by China Miéville. In his pockets are his notebook and paperwork, wallet and phone.  
The bus arrives and he boards, showing the driver his documents. He drops his backpack in the luggage area and sits down. The driver pulls away from the curb and trundles down the road. It’s a quiet journey through country lanes lined with trees to the festival site. The driver drops him off by the gate and he shoulders his backpack and begins the long walk to the security office.

Glastonbury festival is stupidly, ridiculously, unnecessarily huge. Everywhere is roughly half an hours walk uphill to where you actually need to be. Considering around 140,000 people will be spending the weekend there without being crammed in cheek to jowl, it occasionally surprises Bucky that it’s not bigger.  
He finally reaches the security hut, which is actually a very pleasant logwood cabin. Natasha is inside, working through her schedules. He drops his bag on the grass outside and knocks on the wood, she glances up and smiles at him.  
“Hey Barnes,” she calls, waving him in.  
He pulls up a chair and sits down, watching as she makes notes. The festival is a well organised event with around 2,000 volunteers organised by Oxfam as well as the security and technical staff. Unlike volunteers at other festivals, who arrive, get their free entry to the site and fuck off forever, these volunteers are part of the Oxfam community, so have basic morals and will actually show up for work. She hands over his ID, a laminated pass that he clips to his belt along with the walkie talkie she gives him. She counts out five little paper tickets for the site workers canteen and hands them over, he tucks them into his wallet. The festival canteen is a log cabin hidden away along one of the service roads around the festival, a day's work gets you a hot meal & drink, which you get to eat at a table, with cutlery like a human fucking being.  
“How was the cider and hippies?” she asks.  
Bucky shrugs. “Fine”.  
“You should have come to London,” she grins at him. He shakes his head, heading out the door and grabbing his bag.  
“Fuck Klezmer,” he shouts over his shoulder and starts walking down the road, followed by the sound of her laughter.

It takes forty minutes to walk to the backstage campsite, which is at the top of a steep slope. The area is still fairly empty, so he picks a spot not too close to the fence or the centre. He doesn’t worry too much about it, wherever he pitches his tent next time he comes back to it he’ll probably find half a dozen people have circled around it and placed their (illegal) campfire right in his doorway.  
He sits down on the grass and checks his schedule. Natasha has given him some fairly easy work guarding access gates and perimeter checks. Isolated and dull for most of it, but he likes isolated and dull, and he’ll get a lot of reading done.  
From his position on the slope he has a good view of the festival site. Day laborers are in the early stages of assembling the stages and marquees. Tomorrow all the food vendors and merchandise stalls will arrive, along with the theatre troupes, new agers and various nutjobs Glastonbury attracts. In the meantime, a solitary burger van has positioned itself next to the main stage and a small cluster of roadies buzz around it.  
Bucky pointedly does not wonder what Steve is doing, or which stage he will be playing.  
He tucks his book in his pocket and walks over to the backstage bar. The bars at Glastonbury are run by the Workers Beer Company, so Barton will be slinging bottles at some other event, or if he has any sense he’ll be at home, asleep. The bar is being propped up by Rollins and Rumlow, so Bucky retreats quickly before either of them spot him. He doesn’t expect anything to happen, but he’d rather not risk it. Rollins is tolerable on his own, but Rumlow is a mouthy piece of shit that Bucky would rather not deal with.  
He walks down the grassy slope, past the scaffolding and rigs and follows the road to the access gate to start his shift.

It’s a fairly quiet afternoon with a few technicians and labourers driving back and forth, so Bucky settles on a convenient rock with his book and reads about Grimnebulin feeding psychotropic drugs to a caterpillar and being surprised when things go badly from there.  
Luis comes walking down the road and greets him with an enthusiastic hug. He drops is rucksack by the gate and chatters for a while, Bucky managing to catch about half of what he’s saying, which he can only assume is an improvement. Bucky expects him to be excited about Kanye West playing, but it’s actually Burt Bacharach that he’s looking forward to seeing. They chat a while longer, Luis reluctant to carry his heavy bag any further, until a pick up truck come by and lets him hitch a lift on the flatbed. Bucky watches him disappear down the road, loudly singing ‘What the world needs now’.  
A pair of volunteers come to relieve him at the end of his shift. Twins in their early twenties. The boy, Pietro, has a shock of grey hair and is is twitchy and restless. The girl, Wanda, has long hair dyed a caustic shade of red. He makes sure they know how to work their walkie talkie and what they’re supposed to be doing before leaving them to it, making sure they remember his name and will call if they hit any problems. When he’s satisfied that they aren’t about to do themselves any damage, he heads down the road to the festival canteen.

The canteen is one of the most jealously guarded secrets of Glastonbury. A log cabin hidden among the trees, it provides a hot meal a day for festival workers, as well as all the tea and coffee you can get down you in a sitting. It also provides the weary festival worker with an opportunity to eat vaguely nutritious food without the sense of being mugged first. Bucky joins the queue, hands over his ticket and is given a plateful of food. He has no idea what it is, just a mass of vegetables, potatoes and cheese. He picks up a glass of orange juice and some cutlery from a side table where a massive tea urn and a coffee jug sits, and takes his dinner over to the cluster of wooden tables. He spots Maria and joins her. pulling out one of the rustic wooden chairs and sitting down.  
“You seen Luis yet?” she asks around a mouthful of broccoli.  
“Yeah. Did he tell you how much he loves Burt Bacharach?” Bucky asks with a grin.  
Maria rolls her eyes and groans.  
“He wouldn’t stop singing. The man is so cheerful I could punch him,” she mutters.  
Bucky snorts and scoops up a mouthful of potatoes. For all her grumbling and sarcasm Maria has a soft heart, she’s just reluctant to show it. They talk about work for a while, and she passes over her copy of the festival line up. Bucky reads through the different stages, every year there seems to be more of them. He finds Steve on the Acoustic Stage Saturday at 3.30pm and feels an odd little rush of pride. An improvement from the last festival, so he must be doing alright. He notes a couple of things he wouldn’t mind seeing and hands the list back over to Maria.  
“Right,” he says collecting up their empty dishes. “I’ve got gate duty first thing, so I’ll see you tomorrow?”  
Maria nods, and Bucky deposits the plates on the side, stepping out onto the footpath and walking back up to the festival site.  
No one has parked an Airstream on his tent while he was away, so he pulls off his boots and crawls into his sleeping bag. He sets an alarm on his phone, and does not wonder why he’s not had a message from Steve. He folds his jacket into a makeshift pillow and goes to sleep.

He wakes up early and shambles his way out of his tent to the toilets. He brushes his teeth and heads back to his tent to put on a clean t-shirt. He tucks his book and phone in his pocket, clips his walkie talkie to his jeans and walks down to the field. There are a couple more food vendors setting up and he gets himself a coffee and a bagel. He sits on the grass with his breakfast and watches the first of the day laborers start setting up. He drops his rubbish in a nearby bin and walks across the festival site, following the tree lined road to the access gate he’s manning for the next eight hours.  
He meets Rollins at the gate, who grunts at him and walks off.  
Bucky sits down on the wide stone gatepost and starts reading his book. The girl with the beetle for a head is making art when his phone chimes suddenly. He fumbles it out of his pocket and wakes it up.

**Unknown number:** _Look up_

Bucky looks up and sees a Fiat Trigano stopped in front of him. He rolls his eyes, the damn thing is practically a motorhome. He marks his place in his book and drops down from his seat, walking over to the driver side door with a little more swagger than usual.  
“What the fuck are you driving, Rogers?” he laughs as Steve winds down the window.  
He’s wearing aviator shades, which is a step too far where Bucky is concerned. He reaches forward and plucks them off his face. Steve yelps and grabs for them, but he dances out of reach, holding them up to the light critically. He puts them on and saunters back to the open window.  
“Bucky, give me back my damn sunglasses,” he says with a smile.  
Bucky shakes his head, stepping back every time Steve reaches for them.  
“Does this thing have solar panels,” he snorts.  
“Yeah, they’re for the fridge,” he mutters, face turning pink.  
Bucky sticks his head in the window.  
“You’ve gotta fuckin’ fridge in there?” he marvels. “Look at you all opulent in the midst of poverty”.  
He folds his arms on the window frame, resting his chin on his wrist and looking up at Steve from over the frames of his stolen shades.  
“Well think of me freezing in my tent while you’re luxuriating won’t you”.  
Steve ducks his head and smiles.  
“You can always come over,” he mumbles to his shoes.  
Bucky pushes the sunglasses onto the top of his head.  
“Any beer in that fridge?” he asks quietly. Steve nods. “Well I’ll think about it”.  
He slaps the side of van.  
“C’mon, no getting in without a pass, Stevie”.  
Steve grabs the vehicle pass clearly positioned on the dashboard and waves it in Bucky’s face.  
“You gotta map? You know where you’re going?”  
Steve holds up a map of the festival site and nods.  
Bucky walks back over to the gate, unlatches it and pulls it open. Steve steers his ridiculous vehicle through the gate, pausing and leaning out the window.  
“You gonna give me back my sunglasses,” he asks. Bucky shakes his head.  
“You’ll have to come get ‘em. I finish at six,” he says with a wink.  
Steve blushes and mutters under his breath, but pulls away and trundles down the road.  
Bucky closes the gate and watches him disappear from view, then when he’s absolutely sure no one is watching he puts Steve’s number into his contacts. He takes a photo of himself in the sunglasses and sends it to Steve. A minute later his phone chimes at him.

**Stevie:** _very fucking funny_

He smiles and tucks his phone back in his pocket.  
The afternoon passes quickly, with lots of vendors and labourers passing through. There are around four hundred food vans alone at the festival each year, and by the end of his shift Bucky is pretty sure he’s seen every single one of them. Wanda and Pietro come walking down the road to relieve him, and he checks that they’re settling in okay at the campsite and have everything they need. Wanda explains that they’re getting their three volunteer shifts done before the festival starts so they can have the weekend free. Smart kids. He’s so involved in their conversation that he doesn’t notice Steve sneak up behind him and snatch his sunglasses off Bucky’s head. Bucky yelps and grabs for them, but he dodges out of the way, laughing. The sight of Steve laughing is such an unexpected pleasure that Bucky quickly concedes defeat, if only to watch him genuinely laugh, his head thrown back, his hand to his chest like he’s afraid something will burst. It’s beautiful.  
He shakes his head, waving goodbye to Wanda and Pietro and walking over to Steve, throwing an arm around his shoulder and calling him a goddamned punk, which sets him off laughing even more. They follow the road to the festival site, and when Steve admits to never having been to Glastonbury before Bucky insists on giving him a tour, dragging him out of the main site towards the green fields, pointing out the acoustic stage and the access points as they go. They walk up to the stone circle in the sacred space overlooking the tipi village. Steve is enthralled by the idea of spending the festival in a tipi, despite Bucky’s grumbling about cultural appropriation. He can’t stay angry at the look on his face, and quietly agrees when Steve suggests that they should stay in a tipi next year. He kicks Steve ankles and threatens to toss him into a ditch if he’s a snorer, instead of saying the things that are clogging up the back of his throat.

They walk down through the healing fields to a small tent with a hand painted sign reading ‘Tiny Tea Tent’. Bucky sends Steve off to find somewhere to sit and joins the queue. He reappears a short while later with two mugs of tea, passing one over to Steve as he sits down. They drink their tea in silence for a few minutes, Bucky surreptitiously watching Steve as he takes in the surroundings.  
“So is this the best tea in Glastonbury?” he asks eventually.  
Bucky nods, glancing up at him.  
“Yeah. It’s run on renewable energy, they get the tea direct from the producer,” he shrugs. “It’s good tea and no one gets fucked over”.  
Steve grins at him and calls him a hippy.  
“Romani,” Bucky says softly. Steve tilts his head. “Gypsy,” he clarifies. “Travelled around a lot as a kid”.  
He clamps his mouth shut, glances at Steve warily, swirling the dregs of his tea around the bottom of his mug.  
“My mum died when I was a kid. Spent some time in foster care. Dad died when I was little,” Steve swallow's the last of his tea. “You see much of your family?”  
“They don’t agree with my lifestyle choices,” he says, failing to keep the bitter tone out of his voice.  
“They don’t like the festivals?” Steve asks quietly.  
Bucky pulls his mouth into a tight line. From a distance it could be mistaken for a smile.  
“No, it’s being queer they have a problem with,” he mutters ruefully.  
He tips the dregs of his tea onto the floor and lets out a sigh. Well, if Steve wants to stutter some excuses and run for the hills that's his choice, he thinks. It’s all out in the open. He glances over to see Steve fiddling with the handle of his mug.  
“You okay, Stevie?” he asks quietly.  
Steve looks up with a start, then nods quickly.  
“Yeah. Um,” he sets down his mug and nods quickly. “Fine”.  
He looks jittery, so Bucky nudges him with a foot.  
“Worried about Saturday?”  
Steve nods. Bucky collects up the cups.  
“I’ll get us some more tea and we can go through your set list if you like?”  
Steve smiles at him. Bucky joins the queue and doesn’t look back at where Steve is sitting. A tiny part of him expects Steve to be long gone when he returns, but he is perched on one of the low wooden benches with a notebook and pen exactly where Bucky left him. He sits down and hands over a mug, taking a look through the set list Steve offers him. It’s a good mix of his own music and traditional songs. ‘The Turkish Revelry’ is there, as is another song Bucky knows well, ‘Sweet William’.  
“My grandmother used to sing that one,” he says softly. He remembers her high, clear voice. “‘Sweet William’ and ‘The Female Drummer’ were her favourites”.  
Steve scratches the back of his neck nervously.  
“Yeah, I’ve been doing a lot of research. That stuff you gave me was really useful”.  
Bucky grins at him and taps the notebook.  
“You sing fast when you’re nervous, so you might want a back up,” he says.  
“Yeah. Probably not ‘The Female Drummer’, though”.  
Bucky snorts and taps a finger to his lips.  
“What about ‘the Atchin Tan’?”  
Steve shakes his head, Bucky sets his mug on his knee and sings in his soft, low voice.

_“Feather me old pony’s legs, there let him go._  
_So where shall I find him, the lord only knows._  
_I got up next morning, I searched round and round._  
_And when I found me old pony he was in the pound”._

Steve watches him sing, closed fist pressed to his smiling mouth. He shakes his head when the verse ends.  
“Shit, Bucky. You should be on stage”.  
Bucky scowls and flaps a hand at him.  
“No fucking way, Stevie”.  
He picks up his mug and swallows a mouthful. After a moment he grins suddenly.  
“John Barleycorn,” he says triumphantly.  
Steve chokes on his tea.  
“I can’t do ‘John Barleycorn’ it’s got, what? Twenty verses?”  
“Yeah, you can. They’re short verses, and people will love it”.  
Steve shakes his head, but Bucky knows he’s seriously thinking about it. He returns their empty mugs for a refund and drags him down across the site to look for some food. 

Bucky keeps a running commentary while they walk along, pointing out interesting areas and telling stories from previous years. He gives a lengthy and stern lecture on keeping a hold of your phone and wallet when using the toilet cubicles, and eventually leads him to an elaborate blue tent filled with Hare Krishnas.  
“Bucky what are we doing here,” Steve whispers as they file into the tent.  
“Taking part in a fine tradition,” he whispers back. “Singing for your supper”.  
At the rear of the tent is a row of tables with catering trays full of saffron yellow rice and thick lentil dhal. They are each handed a paper plate piled up with food. Bucky picks up a couple of wooden forks and leads Steve over to a bare patch of grass on the floor of the tent scattered with blue pads and cushions and he sits down. Steve hunkers down next to him and frowns at his vivid plate of food.  
“The Hare Krishna give food and shelter during the festival. If you’re broke, or lost your tent or fuck up, they’ll help you out,” he scoops up a mouthful of rice and chews. “They make you sing for it, though”.  
Steve pokes at his dhal, looking around the tent at the red and gold decorations. Bucky elbows him and gestures to the plate. He tries some dhal, and finds it nice enough. Bucky finishes his plateful first, and when a monk in saffron robes offers him a tambourine, he happily shakes it and sings an odd, rhythmic refrain to the delight of the gathered monks.

_Govinda jaya jaya, Gopala jaya jaya  
Radha Ramana Hari, Govinda jaya jaya _

They leave the tent chuckling and elbowing each other. Bucky tries to teach Steve how to dance like a Hare Krishna, light footed steps and twists, throwing his hands up in the air. Steve has no talent for dancing, and they have to stop before he injures an innocent bystander. They walk back to the backstage campsite, giggling and shoving each other and pause when they reach the gate.  
“You working tomorrow?” Steve asks softly.  
“Yeah, perimeter fence. Should be done by six if you wanna,” he shrugs and trails off.  
“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says and turns away.  
Bucky says goodnight and stumbles through the darkness, finding his tent still unmolested by the wheels of a motorhome. He pulls off his boots and bundles himself up in his sleeping bag. He turns his phone around in his hands and debates sending a text. It chimes at him and he sees he has a message.

**Stevie:** _Night, Bucky_

He thumbs open his keyboard.

**Barnes:** _John Barleycorn_

**Stevie:** _Jerk_

He sets his phone down and goes to sleep.

He wakes up early, thanks to the PA system nearby, and heads over to the toilets to clean up and try to make himself feel slightly more human. He puts on a clean t-shirt and jeans back at the tent and clips his walkie talkie to his belt. He tucks his phone into his pocket along with his wallet and walks down to the canteen. The weather is warm and dry, and the fields not too busy.  
Breakfast is potatoes, eggs and beans, and a mug of coffee. He finds Luis dozing at one of the wooden tables and sits down opposite him.  
“Too early, man,” Luis whimpers. Bucky gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and eats his eggs. He finishes his breakfast and heads out to the perimeter fence. 

When Bucky first started working festivals, Glastonbury had a fairly sturdy fence that surrounded the site and tens of thousands of people trying to climb over it or tunnel under it. In 2002 a £1m 12 feet tall steel ‘super-fence’ was unveiled which brought the number of fence jumpers down to one or two. The successful fence jumpers were usually so fucking ballsy about it that Bucky would let them pass, after running them around for an hour or two first. Last year there had been a kid who seemed to think he was in the SAS or something, but after four hours of failing to get anywhere Bucky had taken pity on him, borrowed one of the security landrovers and parked it up against the fence. He had very loudly whistled and wandered off for a while until he heard the telltale thunk and slide of the kid making it over the top. He had rapped on the metal fence and called out, and heard a weak little ‘Thanks, man’ before taking the vehicle back to the site office.  
He walks his circuit along the fence, muttering greetings to the other guards he passes and singing softly to himself.

_“When it starts raining my first thing in mind_  
Is my ridge-pole, my tent-rods, my bed clothes to find  
I put straw down for my chavs to lay on  
I give ‘em the supper and put ‘em to bed” 

At the end of his shift he sends a text asking Steve to meet him a Williams Green if he has nothing better to do. Steve responds a few seconds later asking where, and Bucky takes great pleasure in typing out the words ‘Totem pole’.  
He ambles down across the grass until he reaches the green painted hexagonal hut topped by an enormous post festooned with arrows pointing to the different areas of the festival. It is topped by a large, cow shaped weathervane.  
“I really thought you were joking about the totem pole,” Steve says in his ear, making him jump.  
He laughs and slings his arm around Steve’s shoulder, dragging him along the grass and over to the food vans. Steve’s hand a warm weight against his hip.  
“C’mon, food,” he demands.  
They end up settling on a paella stall, and eat sitting on the grass.  
“So how was your shift,” Steve asks around a mouthful of rice.  
“Alright, just walking around a field mostly”.  
Steve pokes at the peas rattling around on his plate.  
“People don’t seem to like the fence much,” he says quietly.  
Bucky hums and chews his rice.  
“Yeah, a lot of people think they should be able to get in for free”.  
Steve glances up at him.  
“And you?” he asks softly. Bucky taps his plate with his wooden fork.  
“There are something like four thousand toilets here, and two reservoirs for the water supplies. The main stage has two hundred a fifty speakers. Plus all the security guards, the technicians, the sound engineers,” he points his fork at Steve. “Artists, labourers. They all need paying. It takes a week to set up the site and break it down again, and no one is doing that for free”. He pauses to chew a mouthful of paella. “The fence isn’t there to spoil people's fun, it’s there because without it there wouldn’t be a festival”. He waves his fork in a circle around them. “Without Mendip council's approval this whole thing wouldn’t happen, and they won’t approve an event without knowing exactly how many people are gonna be there. Risk assessment, fire and safety, all that crap. Used to be that the festival was dragged into court every year and threatened with closure”.  
“So it’s a compromise?” Steve murmurs.  
“Hmf. The people complaining about not getting in for free, they climb the fence and they’re surrounded by people who have paid to be there. You think they care? Or maybe they’re just entitled little shits who think the world owes them?”  
Bucky shrugs and points his fork at Steve.  
“You can’t afford a ticket, you get in other ways. You get a job or volunteer. Work the gates or pick litter or something”. He shrugs. “Or stay home and watch it on TV”.  
Steve grins at him. Bucky flicks rice at him until he stops and calls him a punk.

They go through Steve's set list again, he has decided to close with John Barleycorn and they run through the lyrics and arrangement together. Bucky insists that they go back up to the sacred space to watch the fire dancers while the sun goes down. They sit on the grass, shoulders pressed together and watch the bonfires spark and burn, bright embers drifting up into the night sky.  
They walk back to the campsite, the sky lit up with strobe lights and lasers. Bucky teaches Steve how to sing ‘the Atchin Tan’ as they go, the words drifting up like embers in the night sky.

It is much too early in the morning when Bucky’s phone chimes. He considers ignoring it, but eventually reaches out of his sleeping bag and grabs for it.

**Stevie:** _What shift have you got?_

He stares blankly at the phone while his brain catches up with his eyes.

**Barnes:** _Day off_

He had arranged to switch with Luis yesterday, the guy was seriously flagging and didn’t look he’d last until Monday, so Bucky had offered his Saturday shift for Luis’ Monday one. Natasha had been fine with it, and Luis would be behind the barriers at the Pyramid stage while Burt Bacharach was performing. Hopefully someone would warn Burt beforehand. His phone chimes again.

**Stevie:** _You coming to see me play?_

Bucky thumbs open his keyboard and smiles to himself.

**Barnes:** _Nah. Staying in bed_

**Stevie:** _Jerk_

**Stevie:** _Come laugh at me while I have a panic attack_

Bucky sighs and gets up. He goes to the toilets and brushes his teeth, heading back to his tent to put on a clean t-shirt. He tucks his walkie talkie into his sleeping bag and shoves his wallet into his back pocket.

**Barnes:** _Meet you at the gate. Bring guitar. You owe me breakfast_

He walks over to the gate and finds Steve waiting, soft guitar case strapped to his back. He is moving restlessly from foot to foot and practically vibrating with nerves. Bucky winds an arm around his shoulder and leads him down the slope to Williams Green. Steve buys them coffee and bagels from one of the vendors and the sit on the grass in the relative peace. It takes some coercion on Bucky’s part to get Steve to eat.  
Steve unzips his soft case and positions the guitar on his knees. He runs through his set, pausing to check his fingering and let Bucky rearrange his set list. He has all eighteen verses of John Barleycorn memorised and tears through the song easily. He runs through the set a seconds time, and declares himself satisfied that it’s not completely awful. Bucky sprawls on the grass and dozes in the sun while he plucks at the strings, bringing together notes into a melody and pausing to scribble lyrics and music in his notebook.  
“The three faces of Steve Rogers,” Bucky murmurs, not quite awake.  
Steve glances over at him and makes an enquiring noise.  
“Natasha think you’re a pissy little shit who starts fights all the time,” he begins.  
“I do not! I just don’t like bullies,” Steve mutters defensively.  
“To the audience you’re shy,” Bucky persists. He pokes him with his foot. “I like this you,” he says simply.  
Steve is quiet for a moment, fingers still on the guitar strings.  
“I like this me too,” he says softly.  
Bucky sits up and stretches, he checks the time and scratches the back of his head.  
“You feel like eating?”  
Steve shakes his head and Bucky gets to his feet. He coaxes Steve up, making him pack away his guitar and leading him down to the Healing Fields. They wander around for a while and Bucky persuades Steve to drink some tea made out of twigs and get a head massage from a middle aged lady wearing far too many colours. He can’t say if it’s the twigs or the massage, but Steve feels a lot more relaxed afterwards.  
When Bucky asks if he wants to wear something else for his performance, he says no and they make their way over to the acoustic stage. He wishes Steve luck and shoves him towards the backstage area, and he goes willingly.

He walks onto the stage and fiddles with his microphone stand, looks at the gathered crowd and spots Bucky, who taps his watch. He rolls his eyes and nods, adjusting his guitar. He starts to play, his voice catching a little at first and then evening out.  
Bucky claps with the rest of the audience when the song ends. Steve manages to finish his set without making mistakes or getting flustered, his singing clear and sweet and his between song banter kept to a minimum. The gathered crowd listen when he sings and applaud when he doesn’t. He finishes with John Barleycorn, and they clap along as he plays. He thanks them and wishes them a great festival, then slips off the stage.  
He comes out a short while later to find Bucky waiting for him. Bucky hugs him tightly and tells him how great he did, while Steve can only stutter and giggle into his shoulder. He’s much too hyped up from his performance to be of any use, so Bucky leads him to the cider bus, where a pint of something cloudy and sour-sweet settles his nerves. They talk through the set, figuring out what worked and what could be better. Steve does most of the talking while Bucky rests his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the table, and tries not to smile too much.  
They walk back to Williams Green and see a converted ice cream van that sells nothing but macaroni cheese and Steve insists on getting some. They sit at a picnic bench with their pasta, Steve’s guitar propped up against the end of the table. Once they have finished eating they walk around the different areas for a while, Bucky getting distracted by a second hand book stall that has a good collection of sci-fi. He rummages through the stacks and picks a copy of Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman and a book on work songs of the sea called Boxing The Compass. He pays for his items and sneaks the book of sea songs into Steve's guitar case when he isn’t looking.  
They start making their way back to the campsite. Steve quietly mentions that he has some beer in his campervan and they wordlessly agree to go drink it. They walk silently across the grass, shoulders bumping occasionally and Steve fumbles for his keys and lets them in.

The campervan is decked out like a motorhome, with a miniscule shower and toilet crammed into a vehicle the size of a small van. There is a thin board dividing the cabin from the rest of the vehicle, keeping the living space separate from the driving space. The lounge seats have been pulled out to make a double bed that has a tangle of blankets spread across it. There is a small kitchen area that Steve can just about fit in with an electric oven, cupboards and a mini fridge. The counter space next to the oven is littered with scraps of paper and plectrums and a pack of wet wipes. There are two small windows shuttered by thick blinds.  
Steve kicks off his shoes and props his guitar case up against the rear doors. Bucky unlaces his boots and sets them down next to the door. He puts his book, phone and wallet next to the pack of wipes and pads quietly over to the bed. he sits down and lets out a soft sigh, flopping backwards and stretching out over the firm mattress. Steve chuckles at him and fetches two bottles of beer from the fridge. He walks over and taps Bucky on the hip.  
“Nope. Not moving,” Bucky says.  
“C’mon, cold beer,” Steve coaxes. Bucky props himself up on his elbows and grudgingly accepts the offered beer. He twists off the cap and swallows a mouthful, sitting up and shuffling over so Steve can sit next to him. He remains standing by the bed, running a fingernail under the label on his bottle and shifting from foot to foot.  
Bucky taps the mouth of the bottle against his lower lip.  
“Sit down, Stevie,” he murmurs.  
Steve clears his throat and leans against the oven.  
“I’m fine here”.  
Bucky sighs and sets his bottle on top of the oven. There is little space to maneuver, but he gets up and manages to grab Steve's beer, setting the bottle next to his own. He is about to say something pithy about having to move from a comfortable bed when Steve kisses him.  
It’s clumsy and brief, over before Bucky can really register it happening, and Steve drops his head and mumbles an apology. Bucky hesitates, then reaches forward, resting his hands on Steve’s shoulders and murmuring his name. When he looks up Bucky presses a soft kiss to his lips. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and pushes forward, awkward and a little frantic. Bucky cradles his face in his hands, holding him still while he brushes lightly against his mouth. He sucks his full lower lip, worrying it between his teeth and Steve whimpers. He runs his tongue over the reddened skin, dipping it between parted teeth and licking into his mouth. Steve shudders and his fingers skim up Bucky’s sides, pausing at his shoulders, at his hips, trailing up his ribs. Bucky threads fingers into his short blond hair and tilts his head, pressing closer and sealing their mouths together. He nips at Steve’s tongue, sucking it into his mouth and swallowing the low sounds he makes. He pulls them back until his calves hit the edge of the bed and he eases down onto the mattress, pulling Steve with him. He goes willingly, pressing the length of his body against Bucky’s and wrapping his hands around his shoulders. Bucky breaks away for a moment to press kisses along the line of his jaw and down his throat, sliding hands under his t-shirt and easing the fabric up his torso, pulling his mouth away from all that sweet warm skin long enough to yank it over his head and toss it onto the floor. He pushes Steve onto his back and straddles his hips, dipping down to suckle on his lower lip while Steve traces his ribs with his fingertips. He runs his tongue across his teeth, grazing his teeth against slick lips, pulling back to strip off his shirt and let Steve’s hands slide across his skin.  
Bucky sucks a row of kisses down his sternum, nuzzling against his smooth stomach while he deftly unfastens his khakis and hooks thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. Steve lifts his hips and Bucky eases the bunched cloth down his legs, pausing to suck bruises on his inner thighs. He presses Steve's knees apart and positions himself between his legs, pressing his tongue to the tender red marks.  
Steve has forgotten how to say anything but Bucky’s name, and he whispers it under his breath between gasps and moans. Bucky strokes hands up his thighs, pressing his thumbs into the crease of his thighs and nuzzling the tangle of hair between his legs. He presses his mouth to his balls and sucks gently, pressing down on Steve’s hips while he squirms and curses softly under his breath. Bucky runs his tongue up Steve’s length, grasping the base with one hand and pressing the other against his stomach. He flicks his tongue against the knot of tissue at the base of the crown and Steve swears loudly, hands grasping at his shoulders. Bucky closes his mouth over the head and sucks, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head. He presses the flat of his tongue to the underside and swallows, Steve's fingers digging into his shoulders.  
He pulls away and climbs up the bed, Steve grabs him and pulls him close, kissing him clumsily and crashing their teeth together. Bucky tilts his head into a more forgiving position and presses their mouths together while Steve fumbles with his jeans, pushing them down his thighs and kicking them off. He tangles his fingers in thick dark hair and goes willingly when Bucky rolls them across the bed, shifting position as he pulls Steve on top of him.  
Hands on his hips, he persuades Steve into movement, pulling their mouths apart to gasp encouragement as they move against each other. He opens his legs and hooks his ankles around Steve calves and he gasps at the friction, hips stuttering. Bucky slides his hands down his waist, cupping the top of his thighs and coaxing him into a steady rhythm. He’s too pinned down by Steve’s weight to move, but shifts his hips and kisses him slow and filthy until they are gasping into each others mouths and Bucky comes suddenly.  
He presses his hands to Steve's waist, eases him back a little, murmuring reassurance while he gasps and shudders. He untangles their legs and takes Steves length in his hand, positioning him between his thighs and pressing his legs together. He cradles Steve’s hips in his hands and eases him into motion, and Steve presses his face against his shoulder and rocks against him, panting and shivering as Bucky presses kisses to his temple and buries fingers in his hair, massaging circles against his scalp when he shivers and comes.

Bucky cradles Steve's head against his shoulder, pressing a hand between his shoulder blades, his thumb gently stroking the nape of his neck. He nuzzles against his scalp, pressing soft kisses to his damp forehead. He is starting to doze off when he feels Steve's shoulders suddenly tense up.  
“Steve?” he murmurs sleepily.  
Steve says nothing and quietly gets to his feet. Bucky watches as he picks up the pack of wipes and quickly cleans himself up.  
He suddenly feels very awake. Awake and wary.  
He sits up when Steve starts to get dressed, pulling on underwear and khakis, keeping his back to the bed.  
“Stevie?” he says, louder this time.  
Steve picks up his t-shirt, he doesn’t look around.  
“You should go,” he says, his voice low and rough.  
For a moment Bucky can’t move, can’t think, can’t even breathe. He shivers and lets out a sudden gasp. He draws another breath and wills his hands to stop shaking. His fingers tremble at the edge of the mattress. All he can see of Steve is the hard, tense line of his shoulders and a battle lost before it even began.  
“Can I clean up first,” he rasps and his voice sounds wrong.  
Steve doesn’t respond, so he reaches forward and grabs the pack of wipes. He cleans off his stomach and between his legs, leaving the bundle of dirty napkins at the edge of the mattress. he pulls on his underwear and jeans and buttons up. Picks his shirt up off the floor and pulls it on. He reaches for his phone and wallet, slipping them into his pockets. Steve doesn’t move or speak the whole time. Bucky has to reach past him to get his boots and he doesn’t turn away or lean into him, just stares at a fixed point on the floor. Bucky pulls on his boots and laces them up.  
“Stevie,” he says softly.  
“Please leave,” Steve whispers.  
Bucky falters at that. He takes a deep breath and picks up his book. He stares for a long moment at Steve, at the stiff line of his back, his head bowed. He tries to think of the right thing to say, the words that will make him warm and open again.  
He doesn’t know them.  
He opens the door, steps out onto the grass and pushes it closed behind him. For a minute he leans against the cold metal and tries to work out what he said, what he did and how he can fix it. Steve doesn’t call out to him, doesn’t come to the door. Inside the vehicle is only silence.  
He turns away and walks down the slope, past the stages and across the fields. He dodges the dispersing crowds leaving the stages, crosses the healing fields and walks up the hill to the sacred space.  
He sits on the grass at the edge of the standing stones and watches the crackling bonfire. He watches the fire dancers spinning and breathing fire and he watches the red and gold embers spiralling up into the night sky.  
A pretty girl who is very stoned gives him a sprig of Corncockle and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s poisonous.

After the fire has burned low and the dancers have packed up their tools and gone back to their tents,, he walks back down the hill. He finds a coffee van that is still open and buys a cup, strong and bitter. He walks to the campsite, sipping his coffee and continues up the slope to the backstage camping area. He drops his empty cup in the trash and picks his way through the tents and campervans to his own little tent. He throws his book into a corner and fetches a change of clothes and his toiletries and goes back out to the shower cubicles. He scrubs himself clean in the tepid water, washing away dirt and and saliva. His mouth remembers the shape of Steve's lips, the taste of his tongue even after he has brushed his teeth. He dresses and shaves and takes his bundle of dirty clothing back to his tent. He checks his phone for messages in his absence, but there is nothing. He types out a message. Deletes it. Tucks the phone in his pocket along with his wallet. He clips his walkie talkie to his belt, pulls on his jacket and picks up his book, and walks back out to the festival site. 

He walks down to the staff canteen, it is quiet in the early morning, but he gets a couple of slices of toast and a cup of coffee and sits down at one of the wooden tables to pick at his toast and read. The girl with a beetle for her head starts working for a mob boss and has just been imprisoned when Natasha sits down opposite him with a plate of scrambled eggs.  
“Hey Barnes. Thought you were dead,” she says cheerfully.  
He mumbles noncommittally and she pauses and takes a closer look at him.  
“You okay?” she says slowly.  
He shrugs and shakes his head. He doesn’t volunteer more information and she doesn’t ask. He fetches more coffee, bringing some for Natasha as well, who has finished her eggs and is checking through her schedules. Bucky snatches the gate detail and checks the listing. His shifts don’t overlap with Rollins or Rumlow, so at least he doesn’t have that to worry about. He holds one of the sheets up to her.  
“You put Luis on the night shift?”  
Natasha shakes her head.  
“He wants to see Donovan, it was the only way I could swing it”.  
Bucky lets out a huff, setting down the schedules.  
“You keeping him?”  
She glances at Bucky, raising her eyebrows.  
“You think I should?”  
Bucky fiddles with his coffee cup and nods.  
“He works hard, he’s good with people. He’d never get into a fight with a punter,” he frowns. “He might hug them, though”.  
Natasha smiles and collects up her papers. She gets up, pushing her chair back in place.  
“I’ll keep that in mind. See you later”.  
Bucky waves her goodbye and goes back to his reading until it’s time to head over to the main gate.

He props himself up on the fencepost with his book. The road is quiet most of the day, and the sound of music drifts down the road from the festival site.  
The psychotropic--eating caterpillar turns into a giant moth. It gangs up with some other giant moth creatures and starts eating the minds of people all over the fictional city.  
He’s relieved at the end of his shift by a guard he’s seen a few times before. Scott is a decent enough guy, affable and a sardonic sense of humour. Bucky is vaguely aware that he has some sort criminal record, pulling some Snowdon stunt in his old job and has been struggling to find work since.  
Bucky doesn’t feel up to conversation, so he says goodbye and walks back up the the festival site. He can’t stomach the thought of food so he walks aimlessly around the fields, dodging the circus performers running riot. The noise and cheering is too much for him so he walks up to the healing fields and wanders around for a while. He buys a sandwich from a vendor and chews it methodically as he walks down to the main area, passing the PPyramid stage and heading up the slope to his tent. He kicks off his boots, crawls into his sleeping bag and tries to sleep.

He wakes up and drags himself out of his tent, pulling on his boots and stumbling over to the toilets. He brushes his teeth and scowls at his reflection. He goes back to his tent for a clean t-shirt and shoves his wallet and phone into his pockets. He picks up his walkie talkie and clips it in place. He packs up his tent and sleeping bag, folding up his dirty clothes and stuffing them into his backpack. The tent packs up small and he straps it to his backpack, fastening his rolled up sleeping bag on top. He grabs his book and an apple and heads out to the festival site.  
He chews on his apple as he walks, stopping at a vendor for a cup of coffee and a muffin which he eats propped up on a wooden bench, his bag resting at his feet. He watches the stall holders packing up their gear and the litter pickers working their way across the grass. By the end of the day the stalls and vans will all be gone, the stages dismantled and the equipment packed up in black cases. The litter pickers will be around a while longer while the fences are brought down and put into storage.  
He crumples up his paper cup and tosses it in the trash, takes a last look around the fields, hefts his bag onto his shoulders and walks down to the main gate for his last shift.

It’s a busy day, lots of people packing up and going home. He holds the gate open for food trucks, camping suppliers and holistic healers. Shortly after midday Luis and Scott come walking down the road, weighed down with their backpacks. They had worked the main stage over the weekend, and Luis had declared them friends. Scott looks resigned to the whole business but not unhappy. Luis takes great pleasure in informing Bucky that he will be working security for the rest of the summer, and insists on thanking him and hugging him several times. Bucky pats him on the back and tells him to fuck off home, and sends them down the road.  
At the end of his shift he latches the gate shut, picks up his backpack from its place propped up against the fence and walks down the road to the security office. He hands over his walkie talkie to Maria, gets paid and says his goodbyes. He walks down the road to the main entrance and waits for the minibus.  
He hums under his breath, and doesn’t let his mind wander or his memory stray.

_Oh-oh, oh-oh John Barley_  
Oh John Barleycorn  
It would cut the heart from a dying man  
To hear John Barley groan. 


	3. Latitude Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yeah, well. The more you spend trying to get back for the shit that's been done to you, the more it keeps on coming. After a while you just... Have to get a lid on it".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three folks!
> 
> Bucky's song in this chapter is 'Will There Be Any Travellers In Heaven". You can find a version sung by Derby Smith online, and if it doesn't make you cry, you have a heart made of shale. (Derby was 'moved on' by the authorities so many times that he once built a large replica rocket, and informed people he was going to go live on the moon)
> 
> The Space Cowboys were real (though it was Orbital that got them frisky). I never ssaw them after that incident. I hope Army Jacket took Prize Catch home to his Mam, though they might have to revise the story of how they met.
> 
> If you get the chance, go see Seasick Steve. It's worth it.

Bucky arrives in Southwold Wednesday afternoon. He had woken up that morning in Cheltenham after a late shift, packed up his tent and headed down to the train station. He’d caught a train to Bristol, a short journey barely half an hour long. From there he caught a train to London, Paddington, stopping long enough to find a laundrette and clean every damn thing he owned and stock up on fruit and cereal bars, before hopping on a seemingly endless procession of pokey little carriages as he made his way from Liverpool street to Ipswich, then Halesworth and finally Southwold. At this point if someone told Bucky he was currently on Mars he would probably believe them.  
He checks in at the security office and finds Natasha looking far too calm for his liking. She glances up at him and grins.  
“Hey Barnes, you look like shit,” she says cheerfully.  
He shrugs off his backpack and drops it on the tarmac.  
“I’ve been on four fucking trains in seven hours. I could have gone to Belgium and back in less time”.  
She hands over his walkie talkie and a security pass.  
“You should have come to Ipswich,” she says with a grin.  
“Fuck Klezmer,” Bucky mutters.  
Natasha flashes a wicked grin. Devious woman.  
“It’s raised awareness..” she begins.  
“Like fuck it has. They stole our music and buried us,” he snaps.  
She raises her hands placatingly.  
“Settle down, Barnes,” she says softly.  
Bucky leans against the portacabin wall and clips the walkie talkie to his belt.  
“Sorry, Nat. It’s been a shitty couple of weeks,” he says quietly.  
“You okay to work?”  
He nods his head and picks up a map and his schedule from the table.  
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he hefts his backpack onto his shoulder. “See you later”.  
He turns right towards the backstage camping area, waving his pass at the guard on the gate. The festival is held in a Henham park, a large estate owned by some Earl. The event sprawls across the open grassland, with four music stages, a children's area and some theatre and literature too. Bucky likes the place well enough, but it is a recently formed festival designed with the purpose of removing as much money as possible from the people attending. If they could get away with it they’d probably install coin slots on the portaloos.  
He finds a suitable spot in the campsite and sets up his tent. Security is a lot tighter here than other festivals, more bag checks and gate checks. He hates going through peoples belongings, so Natasha has assigned him gate and stage duties. He owes her a drink or ten.  
He zips up his tent and makes his way down to the lake, passing the i stage and the bar, run by the Workers Beer Company rather than Barton's independant outfit. He skirts around the near side of the lake, keeping clear of the reed choked banks, and finds a stand selling coffee. He sits on the grass and sips his coffee, watching the stages being set up. He tosses his empty cup in the trash and walks back along the grass, crossing the bridge over the lake and following the path to the main gate to start his first shift.

Rumlow is at the main gate, which is the last thing he needs. He nods and mutters a greeting, and Rumlow scowls at him. Bucky rolls his eyes and ignores him. It’s no secret that Rumlow hates Bucky’s guts, though it’s hard to say what he loathes more, Bucky being gay or being Gypsy. He has never made good on his idle threats and posturing, so Bucky, for the most part, ignores him. He’s dealt with a lot worse, and Natasha makes sure their schedules don’t overlap as best as she can.  
The main gate is busy throughout the afternoon, day labourers and technicians driving back and forth, and food vans and stallholders arriving for the festival. He checks people for wristbands and vehicles for passes, keeping his map close to hand so he can give out directions.  
At the end of his shift Scott shows up to relieve him. They have seen each other a few times over the last few weeks since Glastonbury as Scott also worked at les Eurockéennes festival in France. Bucky hands over his map and runs through the list of Dumb Questions he’ll get asked a hundred times. They chat briefly and Bucky walks back across the grass to the festival site. After wandering around the food vans for a while,, he buys a couple of samosas and eats them sitting by the lake. He returns to his tent, takes off his boots and digs his book out of his backpack, ‘Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell’. It’s tough on the wrists, but he’s enjoying it, and unlike ‘The Road’ it didn’t take him about eight minutes to read it. Or want to kill himself when he did. He reads until it gets too dark to see. He checks his phone and sees he has no messages. It has been nearly three weeks since he last saw Steve, and he hasn’t replied to the handful of texts Bucky has sent. Bucky tosses his phone on the floor of the tent and burrows into his sleeping bag. He doesn’t think about Steve, or wonder where he is, except when he does. He sleeps fitfully and has unsettling dreams that he can’t quite remember when he wakes up.

He wakes up and drags his sorry ass to the shower cubicles where he washes the grime of a long day of travelling away. He brushes his teeth and shaves before stumbling back to his tent to put on a clean t-shirt. He shoves his phone and wallet into his pockets, clips his walkie talkie to his belt and walks across to the festival site.  
More traders have set up since the previous day, and he wanders around the stalls and food vans. Every year they get more ridiculous, one of them offers nothing but coconuts, another tea and crumpets. He finds a van that only serves oats, and buys coffee, a paper cup of porridge topped with blueberries and a flapjack to eat later. He walks back over to the lake and sits on the grass, scooping out blueberries and crushing them between his teeth.  
When he’s finished eating he throws his cartons in the trash and goes to the security gate to start his shift.  
His day is spent dealing with festival goers and campervans, mostly. And the slow procession of people in cars and on foot, loaded down with more stuff than they could ever possibly use, most of which will get dumped at the site on SundayS or Monday when they scramble home. He hands out maps and directs people to campsites, knowing full well that any advice or direction he gives will be completely ignored, and the rest of the festival will be spent patiently explaining to people AA, you can’t camp there because BB, it's the A145 how did you even end up here and CC, move before an eighteen wheeler turns you into a road pizza.  
The day passes quickly and nothing catches fire or explodes. At the end of his shift Luis arrives to take over on the gate. He gives Bucky a hug, which he gladly returns and listens as Luis chatters incessantly about… well, a number of things, most of which pass over Bucky’s head. He nods and tries to keep up, until Luis pauses and gives him a long, searching look.  
“You alright, man?” he asks eventually.  
Bucky shrugs and mutters that he’s fine. Luis shakes his head.  
“You got woman problems? You look like you got woman problems,” he persists.  
Bucky coughs out a laugh at that and shakes his head.  
“No. No,” he glances at Luis. He’s a decent guy, Bucky’s sure of it. “Guy problems, actually”.  
He clenches his jaw and waits to see what happens. Luis punches him in the shoulder.  
“Fuck ‘em, man,” Luis says vehemently. Bucky smiles as he gets grabbed by the shoulders and shaken violently.  
“You are a beautiful person,” Luis says, shaking him with every word while Bucky chuckles. “And you deserve happiness!” Bucky holds up his hands in defeat.  
“Alright, Luis. Jeez,” he mutters.  
Luis gives him a gentle shove and a short lecture on the benefits of rebound sex, and Bucky waves him away with a smile. 

He follows the path through the quickly filling campsites and down the the festival area. It’s busy and loud with campers throwing impromptu parties and the merchandise stalls blasting music from their PA systems. There are setlists for the weekend taped up around the stages, Bucky spends a few minutes reading through them and is pleased to see Seasick Steve is playing. He’s seen the guy a few times and it’s always a good performance, he is a charismatic and engaging storyteller and can have the crowd eating out of his hand. It’s slightly unsettling when you’re working security, and hard to shake the notion that he could at any moment call on his audience to turn on the organisers and riot, and they would probably do so without hesitation. But he’s an affable and good natured guy, so it probably won’t happen. Bucky’s heart stutters when he sees the name Steve Rogers on the Radio 6 stage on Saturday afternoon. He’ll have finished his shift by then, so he debates going. He shakes his head and walks off, of course he’ll go. Even if he was in the middle of a shift, he’d go. Dilo, he mutters under his breath.  
He wanders around the food vans and buys himself a portion of curry and rice. It’s tasty and filling, and doesn’t leave him with the vague sense that he’s been shaken down and had all his cash stolen like some of the other stalls. He sits at one of the picnic benches while he eats, and tosses his paper plate in the trash when he’s finished. He walks around the site for a while, checking out the literature tent and the film stage. He wanders back to the campsite and spots a fenced off area amongst the trees. He takes a closer look and sees a sign reading ‘Piano Garden’. There are several old, brightly painted upright pianos scattered around the space, along with benches and bunting in primary colours. He walks around for a few minutes before sitting down at a blue painted piano and lifting the lid. He runs his fingers along the keys, old but in serviceable condition, a little flat here and there. He runs through a few exercises, fingers dancing up and down the keys. His fingers find the notes without his asking, and a familiar tune drifts amongst the trees. A song he never sings because it makes him feel mawkish, but the words fill his throat regardless.

_“Tonight as I stay by the roadside  
Just watching those Travellers go by  
Thinking what’ll become of those Travellers  
Whenever their time comes to die.  
Will there be any Travellers in heaven?  
Any places at which we might stay?  
Will there be any gavvers or Councils  
To move our old trailers away?” _

He lets his fingers come to a stop and is distantly aware of a smattering of applause. He glances around at the group of people assembled and gives an awkward little smile, shoulders hunched, and quickly gets to his feet. He ducks out of the enclosure, heading across the grass to the campsite. He finds his tent in the tangle of guy ropes and tarps and unlaces his boots, kicking them off and getting into his sleeping bag. He reads until it is too dark to, burrows under the covers and tries to sleep.

He wakes up early and stumbles to the toilets to piss and brush his teeth, returning to his tent for a clean shirt and an apple. He shoves his wallet and phone into his pocket and clips the walkie talkie to his belt, and walks down through the camp, chewing his apple. He grabs a cup of coffee and a doughnut and heads over to the ticket office.  
He meets his group of volunteers who are working at the festival for free entrance, and goes through the process of checking tickets, returning stubs and handing out wristbands. He sets out the different types of wristbands - day pass, weekend pass and artist pass, sits the kids down at the row of tables in the marquee and opens up the booth for the waiting crowd of festival goers.  
The morning passes quickly, with little drama or stress. People are excited to see the bands and the volunteers are quick and fairly capable. He has to cut off and replace a few badly applied bands, and remind the volunteers that they are issuing wristbands, not tourniquets, but otherwise it’s the usual organised chaos that is festival work.  
He staggers the volunteer’'s lunch breaks, sending them off for twenty minutes one at a time. At the end of his shift he supervises the changeover of volunteers and repeats the instructions to the new group, introducing them to the tables and relieving the kids finishing their shift one at a time to minimise fuck ups.  
Scott shows up at the end of his shift to take over duties, and Bucky is glad to see him, even with the slightly awkward, one armed hug he offers, muttering the whole time that he should probably stick with handshakes. Bucky laughs and claps him on the back, leaving him to get on with his work.

He heads out to the arena to stare at the food vans and weigh up how badly he needs to eat and what the going rate for an adult male kidney is these days, before thinking fuck it and buying a burrito. He walks around the arenas for a while, feeling stiff for being stood in one place too long all day, and is thinking of heading back to his tent when his walkie talkie squawks into life.  
“Hey Barnes. Barnes!”  
It’s Luis, his voice sounding oddly strangled. Bucky unclips the walkie talkie from his belt and answers.  
“Luis?”  
“Yeah, I gotta problem, man!”  
Bucky suppresses a sigh.  
“You’re supposed to use codes, Luis. Discretion and all that”.  
There is a brief silence. He can make out an odd ringing sound over the radio.  
“I… don’t know the code for this one,” Luis says finally, his voice slightly garbled.  
Bucky gets a location from him, way over in the general campervan and caravan area near the main gate, and jogs over there, radio still clenched in his fist.  
He hears the ringing sound again before he sees anything, quickly working out that someone is slapping one of the chain link fences that surround the camp site. He spots Luis and a small crowd of onlookers in a sheltered corner. A few of them look appalled, most are laughing.  
Bucky squares his shoulders and pushes through the crowd, sending them scattering. He turns to Luis, who is trying to shield two guys in their early twenties who are pressed up against the fence. Luis is struggling to keep himself together, hunched over in a fit of high pitched giggles. The guys against the fence are having a heated argument in low voices.  
“What’s going on?” Bucky asks warily.  
Luis straightens up, wiping his eyes. The two guys fall silent.  
“So these two were watching, what was it guys? Public Service Broadcasting?” The guys nod sullenly, “And got to talking about how much they love space,” he begins.  
Bucky sighs and shakes his head.  
“What did you take?” he tries and fails to keep the exasperation out of his voice.  
The guy furthest from the fence who has pinned the other guy to the chain link, though their positions are obscured by his oversized ex army jacket, shrugs his shoulders.  
“Pills,” the other one says meekly, muffled by the bulk of his friend.  
Luis presses a hand to his mouth and doubles over again. Bucky steps around to where he’s standing and sees that both guys have their jeans pulled down, the one against the fence down to his mid thigh, the other just down his hips a little. Oh for fucks sake.  
“You really love space, huh?” he says quietly.  
Luis lets out a fresh squeal of laughter, and Bucky can’t help but smirk.  
“So why are you still…” he asks.  
“We’re stuck,” the one in the army jacket wails suddenly.  
Luis lets out a little shriek. Bucky puts his hand on his back and leans into him.  
“Okay, Luis. I’m gonna need you to head down to first aid. It’s next to the lockers, yeah? Tell ‘em what's going on and get them up here right away, okay?”  
Luis nods and starts jogging along the grass, Bucky can still hear him laughing. He turns back to the space cowboys.  
“Okay guys, help’s on its way,” he says quietly.  
Army Jacket starts panicking and shaking his head.  
“Nah, nah, you can’t tell anyone. Me Mam’ll kill me,” he yelps.  
The one against the fence starts punching his leg and squirming, making him yelp.  
“Fuck you, don’t say that about your Mam. She loves you an’ wants you to be happy,” he yells.  
“She’ll do ‘er nut in,” Army jacket responds.  
“Fuck off I’m a prize catch,” he snarls.  
“I ain’t fuckin’ gay!”  
Bucky can’t help himself, and cuts into the discussion.  
“You’ve got your cock in another mans arse, mate. That kind of makes you gay,” he says firmly.  
Army jacket falls silent at that, and his friend pats him on the knee sympathetically.  
Luis comes huffing across the grass with one of the medical staff from the first aid tent, a large, cheerful man with two days of stubble and a Metallica t-shirt, who takes one look at the Space Cowboys and radios for an ambulance.  
He snaps on a pair of rubber gloves and the two go silent and still while he squirts medical grade lubricant on his fingers.  
“Right, hold still a minute,” he says cheerfully as he reaches between them.  
Army jacket lets out a little broken sound and there is a faint ‘pop’.  
“Okay, we’ll need to take you in for an exam and make sure you haven’t got any tearing in there,” he says before turning to Army Jacket. “And for god's sake use lubricant in future,” he snaps.  
Army Jacket ducks his head and mutters a barely audible ‘Yes, sir” then rests his head on his friend's shoulder.  
“‘M sorry if I ruined your arse,” he says quietly. And that is when Bucky reaches his limit.  
He sits down on the grass and laughs until he can’t breathe while Luis pats him on the shoulder. They watch the ambulance arrive and load one of the guys onto a gurney while the other one awkwardly asks to accompany him, and they all pile into the ambulance.  
“You think they’ll be okay,” Luis asks quietly.  
Bucky nods and gets to his feet.  
“Yeah,” he says and grins at Luis, who sniggers.  
“Gettin’ in on at Latitude!” he laughs and Bucky joins in, leaning on his shoulder. He catches his breath and gives him a shove.  
“Okay, I’ve got an early shift. See you later,” he says.  
“Later, man,” Luis says, waving him away.  
He walks back to his tent, dodging pegs and guy ropes, and kicks off his boots. He picks up his book and reads until it gets too dark to see. Mr Norrell summons a fairy, which goes about as well as can be expected. He closes his book and gets into his sleeping bag. He has odd dreams about oakmoss and ravens and his grandmother reciting prayers while she rubs him down with flat smooth stones.

He wakes up early and goes through his morning routine, brushing his teeth and changing into something less sweaty before heading down to the arena to part with too much money for not enough food. He gulps down his coffee and heads over to the Wristband exchange to start his shift.  
He meets the day’s volunteers and runs through the process of checking tickets, handing over stubs and applying wristbands, setting each volunteer behind the row of tables in the marquee and making sure they know what they’re doing, setting out weekend and day pass wristbands and opening up the marquee for the people gathered outside.  
The morning goes quickly with little trouble. There are a few counterfeit tickets, but Bucky lets them slide. Poor bastards probably paid too much money for them anyway.  
He sends the volunteers off for lunch one after the other before slipping out to grab a cup of coffee.  
He supervises the changeover of volunteers, a couple he remembers from the previous day, so he lets them get on with things. Luis comes to relieve him at the end of his shift, still laughing about the previous day. Bucky doesn’t hang around, promising to catch up with him later and heading out to the festival. He walks over to the Radio 6 stage just in time to catch Steve’s set.

He doesn’t go to the small crowd that have assembled in front of the stage, keeping a little further back, but not so far that he can’t see him clearly.  
He looks good, wearing his old man chinos and a plain black t-shirt. He quietly introduces himself and starts to play. Bucky’s heart aches a little when he plays, starting with a couple of his own songs and following with ‘The Turkish Revelry”. There is a smattering of applause between each song, growing longer and louder as the set goes on. He sings a couple of sea shanties, stamping his foot on the stage as the audience claps along and finishes with one of his own songs, a simple melody plucked on the strings that it takes Bucky a minute to realise he’s heard before, sprawled on the grass at Williams Field in Glastonbury. He suddenly feel disoriented, and quickly leaves the stage area to get some fresh air.  
He walks along the lake away from the music and crowds and finds a quiet corner to sit and think about nothing in. He pushes his fingers into his hair and scratches at his scalp, a little too hard to be soothing, and tells himself to get it together.  
He gets to his feet and walks back to the arena. He wanders around the stages for a while, pausing to listen to a few sets and buy himself some tea from an unnecessarily twee stand offering crumpets. He is finishing his tea when his walkie talkie squawks at him. He unclips it from his belt and lifts it to his mouth.  
“Luis, that you?” he asks.  
“No, it’s Natasha,” comes the response. She sounds pissed off.  
“Hey, Nat. What’s up?” he says, glancing around the festival site to see if anything has exploded or is on fire.  
“Your guy is trying to get himself killed,” she says.  
Bucky can just about make out the sounds of a disturbance going on in the background. He debates explaining to Nat that he doesn’t have a guy, and that he is probably the worst person to be calling right now, but he doesn’t. Instead he asks where she is. Backstage bar. Alright, get this shit over with.

He jogs over to the guest camping area and makes his way around to the bar. He sees a couple of overturned chairs and two people trying to beat each other up, despite several other security guards and bar staff keeping them separate. One of them is Steve, his nose bloody and a cut across his brow. The other is Rumlow. It looks like Steve landed a few good hits before being pulled away. Good, the asshole deserves it. He heads over to the bar and snags the first aid kit hidden under the counter before gritting his teeth and pushing into the fray, figuring he has a 50/50 chance of getting a black eye. He moves into Steve’s field of vision and hooks and arm across his chest.  
“C’mon, Stevie,” he says softly. “Let's get some air”.  
Steve freezes, and Rumlow lunges forward. Bucky pulls Steve out of his reach and takes a couple of steps back.  
“Come on,” he repeats softly. “Come on”.  
Steve doesn’t lash out at him and is quietly led outside. Bucky looks around for a minute, glancing at Steve, who is too quiet and too still, eyes fixed to the ground.  
“You got a ridiculous campervan?” he asks.  
Steve glances up at him briefly, then looks away, his mouth turned down.  
“Somewhere we can get you cleaned up without an audience,” Bucky clarifies.  
Steve nods and starts walking past the bar towards the guest campervan area and leading Bucky to a narrow van with a pop-up roof. Bucky does his best not to laugh while Steve fumbles his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door.  
“What?” he mutters, still defensive.  
“Nothing. It’s… They could have called it anything and they went with ‘Bongo’”.  
Steve manages a small smile at that and pulls open the side door. There is a sink, cabinets and a fridge inside, along with a couch that has been pulled out to make a double bed. Bucky waves him in.  
“Alright, go sit”.  
Steve climbs into the van and sits silently on the edge of the bed. Bucky follows, pulling the door closed behind him and dropping the first aid kit on the counter. He sits on the bed next to Steve and curls an index finger under his chin, lifting his head slightly. He presses his fingers to Steve’s bloodied nose, listening for a grating sound or breathing difficulty.  
“Nothing's broken, I think,” he says softly. “Pinch here and tip your head back”.  
Steve obliges, letting Bucky adjust his hand and position his head.  
The taps work, so he fills the sink with tepid water and finds a clean cloth to drop into it. He wrings out the cloth and gently wipes away the blood on his chin and cheek, rinsing out the cloth a few times as he goes. He drops the cloth back in the sink and pulls the plug, fetching the first aid kit and unzipping it. He tears open a sachet of antiseptic wipes and cleans the cut on Steve’s brow, getting him to hold the cloth in place and apply pressure while he opens some butterfly dressings.  
“So what you doing starting fights with assholes like Rumlow?” he asks, unpeeling a bandage from its paper covering.  
“I… didn’t like what he was saying,” Steve says, his voice muffled.  
Bucky moves the hand holding the wipe against his brow, and Steve lets it drop into his lap while Bucky applies the butterfly bandage to the seeping cut.  
“Yeah? What was he saying?” he peels off another strip.  
Steve glances at him briefly, then lets his eyes return to the ceiling.  
“He called you a pikey,” Steve mutters.  
Bucky positions the second butterfly bandage and snorts.  
“Yeah,” he says bitterly.  
“He said you were a faggot”.  
Bucky wrings out the wet cloth and pulls Steve’s hand away from his nose. He wipes the crusted blood off his lips and presses the cold damp cloth to the developing bruise.  
“Also true,” he says softly.  
He gets Steve to hold the cloth in place while he rummages through the first aid kit and finds a sachet of gel.  
“You’re a thief, too. You’d steal my watch,” Steve persists.  
“Yeah, that’s true,” he laughs, ripping open the sachet and squeezing the gel onto his fingers. “It’s a nice watch”.  
Steve stares at him for a minute.  
“He ain’t better than you,” he says, quiet and fierce.  
Bucky shakes his head and spreads the cool gel over the bridge of his nose.  
“Never said he was”.  
He tears open another antiseptic wipe and starts cleaning the bloodied knuckles of Steve’s hand.  
“People are always going to be talking shit about me. Can’t let it get to you”.  
Steve shakes his head and watches as Bucky carefully checks over his hand, making him flex his fingers and wrist.  
“I didn’t like it,” he mumbles.  
Bucky squeezes out the rest of the sachet of gel and rubs it onto his knuckles.  
“Yeah, well. The more you spend trying to get back for the shit that’s been done to you, the more it keeps on coming. After a while you just… have to get a lid on it,” he glances up at Steve, who won’t quite meet his eye. “What you gonna do, beat up everybody?”  
Steve looks mutinous.  
“If I have to,” he says through gritted teeth.  
Bucky laughs and packs up the first aid kit. Steve closes his eyes and bows his head.  
“You should hate me,” he says quietly.  
“Yeah,” Bucky gives him a small, soft smile. “But I don’t”.  
He gets out his walkie talkie and radios Natasha. She has been talking to other people in the bar who had seen the fight go down, and sent Rumlow home.  
“Your guy pressing charges?” she asks.  
Bucky glances at Steve who shakes his head, and tells her no.  
“Is he planning on picking any more fights this weekend?”  
Another glance, another shake of the head.  
“Well, beating on artists is a summary dismissal, so you’re covering for him at Camp Bestival”.  
Bucky groans softly and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.  
“Gah. Fuckin’ fine then”.  
He signs off and drops the walkie talkie on the bed. He glances over at Steve.  
“Come on then, you can buy me dinner”.  
Steve stares at him for a moment and Bucky slaps his arm.  
“Come on, put on something less blood stained and we’ll go eat”.  
“Bucky, you can’t be serious,” he says quietly.  
Bucky clips his walkie talkie to his belt.  
“Of course I’m fuckin’ serious. And starving, so come on. Chop chop!”  
He claps his hands and Steve gets to his feet, looking slightly dazed but not unhappy. He pulls off his t-shirt and puts on a light grey long sleeved one, while Bucky keeps his eyes averted, waiting until he’s covered before opening the sliding door and stepping out onto the grass. Steve follows him, still giving him occasional glances like he can’t quite believe he’s not getting difficult questions or a punch in the gut.

They walk across the grass towards the arena side by side, silent but not uncomfortable. Bucky leads the way to one of the quieter food stalls away from the stages and suggests they get a pizza. They find a wood panelled van that offers sourdough pizza and order a blue cheese and a margherita, which they take down to the lake to eat. They sit on the grass and watch the crowds gathered around the stadiums for a while before Bucky speaks.  
“What are you so pissed about, Steve,” he asks quietly.  
Steve flinches and glances around.  
“I’m not… I’m fine,” he stutters.  
“I don’t mean now,” Bucky reassures him. “But something's up”.  
Steve shakes his head and picks at the grass at his feet.  
“Nothing. I’m just… I’m under a lot of stress”.  
Bucky leans closer and bumps their shoulders together.  
“You’re picking fights with security, and being high maintenance. That kind of stuff will get you a reputation,” Bucky says, not unkindly. “Doesn’t seem like you”.  
Steve draws his knees up to his chin and wraps his arms around his legs. He looks oddly vulnerable for someone so tall.  
“Did you ever get everything you wished for, and realise it was… shit?”  
Bucky laughs and shakes his head.  
“Nah. Never…” he stops himself before he says something stupid, like how he’s never been able to get what he wanted, or keep it for very long if he did.  
Steve is quiet for a few minutes, and Bucky lets him be quiet.  
“If. If you had told me a year ago that I’d have a record deal, I wouldn’t have believed you,” he says quietly.  
Bucky rests his chin on his hand, his elbow propped on his knee.  
“Uh huh?”  
“If you’d told me six months ago that I had a deal and was miserable,” he shakes his head, then flops down onto the grass.  
“You get screwed?” Bucky asks, moving to lie down on the grass next to him.  
“Yeah. They offered me a… A lot of money. More than I’d ever seen and said ‘sign here’ and like an idiot I did”.  
Bucky turns onto his side and looks at Steve, flat on his back and staring up at the darkening sky.  
“And now it’s just… I have no control over anything. What events I play, what artwork gets used on my album, even what songs can go on the album,” he looks over at Bucky, his brow creased. “I don’t even get a say who uses my music. And it's… It’s my music”.  
He covers his face with his hands and lets out a defeated little sigh.  
“I fucked up”.  
Bucky shuffles closer and presses their shoulders together.  
“It’s okay to fuck up,” he says quietly.  
Steve shakes his head, his face still covered by his hands. Bucky presses closer.  
“Did you bring it?” he asks quietly.  
Steve mumbles something that sounds like ‘what?’.  
“Your shitty contract, did you bring it with you?”  
Steve parts his fingers enough to peer at Bucky.  
“...Yes?”  
Bucky sits up and smacks his arm.  
“I’ll come by after my shift tomorrow and we’ll take a look at it, yeah?”  
“You’d do that?” he asks quietly, looking at Bucky like he has turned purple.  
“Yeah,” Bucky pats his arm. “We’ll figure it out”.  
Steve stares at him for a moment, long enough for Bucky to start to feel unsettled, then manages a small, beautiful smile.  
Bucky gets up and hauls Steve to his feet. They walk back to the campsite in silence, shoulders bumping together occasionally. They part ways quietly, Steve headed to the campervan and caravan campsite and Bucky to the tents.  
He finds his tent in the gloom and crawls in. He kicks off his boots and climbs into his sleeping bag. His phone chimes.

**Stevie:** _Night, Bucky_

He smiles and thumbs open his keyboard. He thinks about Steve punching Rumlow, how he’s never had anyone fight his battles before. He thinks about how it’s something he could get used to. He shakes his head and writes a different message from the one he wants to.

**Barnes:** _Night, Steve_

Bucky wakes up early, annoyed into consciousness by the beeping of the alarm on his phone. He shuffles to the toilets to piss and brush his teeth, heading back to his tent to put on clean clothes and dig an apple and his book out of his bag. He heads down to the festival area and buys a cup of coffee and a flapjack, then heads over to the main gate.  
Scott is finishing up his shift, bleary eyed and half asleep when Bucky arrives. He doesn’t hang around to chat, and Bucky sends him off to his tent to get some sleep.  
The morning is fairly busy with people with one day tickets arriving for the last day of the festival and a few people leaving early. Bucky still gets to spend some time reading, propped up against the gate. The minister's wife gets replaced by a log and no one seems to notice, except to comment that she seems a little dispirited.  
Luis shows up at the end of his shift, practically dancing from foot to foot while he tells Bucky about Rumlow being fired. Luis doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body, but can’t stand Rollins and Rumlow. Bucky doesn’t doubt that they’ve talked all kinds of shit about him, and Luis would take offense to that kind of thing. He listens to the chatter, catching every other word or so, until the man finally runs out of steam.  
Bucky makes his excuses and heads down the road, pausing to send a text to Steve to see if he’s awake.  
He gets an affirmative and stops off at a food van to get some coffee and a bag of doughnuts before heading to the guest camping area. He hesitates at Steve’s ridiculous campervan, but knocks on the door anyway. Steve pulls the sliding door open and gives Bucky a nervous smile. 

His face is bruised, but not badly swollen. Bucky holds out a cup of coffee for him, which he takes, stepping back to let Bucky in. He has folded up the double bed back into a bench seat and pulled up a foldaway table. On the table is a plastic folder. Bucky drops the bag of doughnuts next to it and sits down on the bench.  
“How’s the face?” he asks, opening up the bag of doughnuts and shoving one in his mouth.  
“Sore,” Steve responds, prodding his nose.  
He sits down next to Bucky and takes a sip of coffee. Bucky opens the folder and starts to read through the contract inside. He nudges the bag of doughnuts over to Steve until he picks one up and takes a small bite. Steve watches Bucky silently as he turns the pages of his contract, occasionally frowning and flipping back and forth between the sheets.  
“You gotta pen?” he asks suddenly, making Steve jump. He pulls a notebooknotebook and pen out of his pocket and hands them over. Bucky finds a blank page and starts making notes.  
Eventually Bucky closes the document and sits back, dropping the pencil on the table.  
“Is it bad?” Steve asks quietly. Bucky nods his head.  
“You got fucked over,” he says ruefully. “It’s not all bad, it’s a twelve month rolling contract, not a fixed one. They could’ve had you for five albums or something”.  
Steve snorts and shakes his head. Bucky grabs another doughnut and takes a bite.  
“Yeah, you’d think a fixed contract would be better, but a rolling one means you can negotiate a better deal when you come up for renewal, or sign up with another label. Also means that there’s no chance of you making five albums that get shelved. Then you really would be screwed”.  
He takes another bite of doughnut and flips open the contract.  
“Okay, so whatever happens, you’re not stuck. You’ve got, what? Nine months left?”  
Steve nods, tearing his doughnut into smaller and smaller pieces.  
“Please tell me you spent some of your advance on a recording studio and didn’t blow it all on campervans,” Bucky says with a smirk.  
Steve grimaces and flicks a chunk of doughnut at him.  
“I’m not that stupid,” he mutters.  
“So, you’ve got an album recorded?”  
Steve slumps down in his seat and starts picking at his empty coffee cup.  
“They don’t feel it’s ‘commercially acceptable’,” he scowls.  
Bucky puts a hand on his back and rubs a gentle circle between his shoulderblades. Steve sighs and presses into the touch.  
“So, not radio friendly enough”.  
Steve shakes his head, looking dejected.  
“Okay, there’s a load of stuff that you should have in this thing, creative control of artwork, secondary exploitation of music, use of name and likeness, song selection, secondary income,” he taps the papers in front of himhim. “And this Artist Warranties bit is bullshit. Conduct yourself in an appropriate manner? Do not enter into engagements…” Bucky shoves the contract across the table. “It may as well just say don’t get drunk or high or be gay”.  
Bucky lets out a sigh and crosses his arms over his chest.  
“Nothing in there about punching people, so there’s that,” he says ruefully.  
He glances over at Steve, who is slumped in his seat. Bucky unfolds his arms and puts his hand back on the small of his back, pressing into the tense muscles with his thumb.  
“The way I see it, you’ve got two options. You try and renegotiate your contract. I know this guy, Coulson. He can probably help. It’s a good time to do it, because you’ve been going down great at the festivals, and there’s still more to come”.  
Steve’s expression clears a little, and he glances at Bucky.  
“You saw me play?” he says quietly.  
“Yeah, course I did,” Bucky mutters, poking him in the ribs when he doesn’t stop smiling.  
“Ow! Okay, you said two options?”  
“You sell out,” Bucky can see Steve about to argue and gives him a shove. “Nine months. You write radio friendly music, you quit punching security guards and you don’t go making out with guys,” Steve turns away from him, mouth twisted. Bucky gives him a nudge. “Even really sexy, greasy security guards. I know you gotta type”.  
Bucky grins at him and Steve shakes his head.  
“Bucky, I’m so…”  
“Shush,” Bucky says quickly. “It’s okay”.  
“No, it isn’t,” Steve says quietly.  
Bucky ruffles his hair.  
“It is what it is,” he says, and says nothing more on the matter.  
“So. You know a guy,” Steve asks quietly.  
Bucky nods and gets out his phone. He pulls up Coulson's contacts details and writes them in Steve’s notebook, pushes it across the table to him.  
“You’ll call him, yeah?”  
Steve nods, slipping the book into his pocket.  
“I’ll be checking up on you,” Bucky says with a grin. Steve blushes and kicks him under the table.  
“You hanging around or heading back tonight?”  
Steve taps his fingers on the table.  
“I could stay,” he murmurs.  
Bucky slaps his palms on the table.  
“C’mon, Steve. Let's go get some overpriced crap and watch Seasick Steve”.

Bucky hustles Steve out of the van and they walk across the campsite and down to the Obelisk arena. They manage to catch the gig, squeezing into the crowded arena and Steve is enthralled by the performance. Seasick Steve is a striking figure with his long grey beard and tattoos, brandishing a Frankenstein's monster of a guitar made of a washboard and a number plate, powering through his set and getting the audience to howl like wolves for his final number.  
After the gig they tumble out onto the grass, Bucky laughing while Steve raves about the performance. They find a van selling Gujarati food, which Bucky insists on Steve trying. They eat at a picnic table, the curry warm and spicy and sweet.

They walk around the festival for a while, watching some performances and talking, and eventually find themselves at the Piano Garden. Bucky is appalled when Steve confesses that he can’t play and drags him over to a red and blue painted piano, sitting him down on the bench. He sits down next to him, elbows knocking together.  
“Okay, this is middle C,” he says, tapping a key.  
He elbows Steve until he dutifully taps the key as well.  
“See where it is between the black keys? So you have seven notes, C, D, E, F, G, A,” he presses each note as he says them. “And they repeat along the keyboard. The black keys are in a repeated pattern, yeah?”  
Steve nods, pressing down on each key.  
“Okay, so I’ll say some notes, you press the key, okay?”  
Steve nods, holding his hand over the middle C.  
“C D E E G F,” Bucky says slowly, watching Steve's fingers move over the keyboard. “F A G A G F E”.  
Steve frowns to himself as his fingers move.  
“Okay, let's do it again, but with maybe a bit of a melody,” Bucky snarks.  
Steve elbows him, but repeats the process.  
“I know this? How do I know this?” he mutters.  
He plays again, and Bucky sings along.

_“Treat me right, treat me good  
Treat me like you really should  
I’m not made of wood  
And I don’t have a wooden heart” _

Steve lets out a laugh.  
“It’s Elvis, right? Hah,” he runs through the notes again.  
“How did you learn to play?”  
Bucky moves his hand into a better position, splaying his finger out.  
“My grandmother,” he says gently, crooking his fingers and showing him how to position his wrist.  
“She had a piano?”  
“No, but she could play,” Bucky’s gaze softens. “She carved a keyboard onto her dining table, hid it under a tablecloth so my grandfather wouldn’t find out she was scratching up the furniture. When she was taking care of me she’d push back the cloth and show me how to play”. He smiles at the memory. “She’d sing each note while I tapped away”.  
Steve watches him, entranced.  
“Play me something,” he says quietly.  
And how can Bucky say no to him? He sets his fingers on the keys and plays, Steve pressed warm and heavy against him.

_“Tonight as I stay by the roadside  
Just watching those Travellers go by  
Thinking; what will become of those Travellers  
Whenever their time comes to die?  
There’s a Master up yonder in Heaven  
Got a place that we might call our home  
But will we have to work for a living  
Or shall we continue to roam? _

He lets his fingers come to a stop, and rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, letting his eyes close. After a few minutes Steve gives him a gentle shake.  
“Hey, wake up,” he murmurs.  
Bucky grumbles, but sits grudgingly up and stretches, suppressing a yawn.  
“Ugh. I should get some sleep. Travelling tomorrow,” he mutters.  
“Yeah? Where to?”  
“Fuck if I know, France or something. Then back here for Camp Bestival,” he scratches the back of his head. “Then Sziget,” he finishes.  
Steve’s face lights up at the last word.  
“Budapest?” Bucky nods. “Yeah, I’m doing that one. I’ll see you there?”  
Bucky nods and gestures to the campsite.  
“You staying out or turning in?”  
Steve doesn’t say anything, but gets to his feet, pulling Bucky up to join him, and they walk over to the camping ground. Bucky claps him on the back and reminds him to call Coulson before heading to his tent.  
He kicks off his boots and crawls into his sleeping bag. He falls asleep before he hears his phone chime with a goodnight message.

Bucky wakes early and pads over the damp grass to the shower cubicles. He washes off the grease and dirt, brushes his teeth and shaves. He returns to his tent, puts on clean clothes and packs up his bag. He folds up his sleeping bag and takes down his tent, packing everything up and strapping it to his backpack. He eats his last apple, then shoulders his bag and walks down to the main gate. He stops off at the Security portacabin and finds Maria on duty. He hands over his walkie talkie and takes his wages. He heads down to the bus stand and sets his bag down, and waits for the minibus that will take him to the train station, where he will spend the day hopping from train to train as they crawl across the English countryside. The day is overcast, a light patter of rain that barely dampens his jacket. He hums to himself, still half asleep.


	4. Sziget Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An island festival, and a ship moored. He taps his fingers to his mouth and grins suddenly.  
> "Stevie," he says softly  
> "What?"  
> "Pirates".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PIRATES!
> 
> A thousand thank yous to the wonderful lilithduvare for her Hungarian wisdom, food ideas and for being an all round fabulous human being.
> 
> Also... I'm sorry.

Bucky boards the 10:24 train from London St Pancras to Paris. He feels crumpled and out of place on the sleek Eurostar, shoving his backpack into the storage compartment and shuffling down the aisle to his seat.  
He had spent the last two days in London, crashing at Barton’s place while he got his schedule and tickets sorted for the next few weeks, as well as making the most of Barton’s washer dryer and power shower. He had also taken the opportunity to actually sleep, even if it was on a couch that had seen better years rather than days. His bag packed with clean clothes, toiletries, apples and some dubious whey protein bars that Barton swears by, though fuck whatever the packet says, the damn things have never been in the same building as an apple pie, let alone taste like one.  
Bucky sits back in his seat and watches the English countryside crawl past as the train idles its way down southern England before reaching the channel tunnel and crossing France at something close to light speed before spitting him out at Gare du Nord.  
He has a couple of hours in Paris between trains so he walks down to the Louvre to see what all the fuss is about and stretch his legs before walking to the Gare du L’Est.  
He catches the 15:25 train to Munich, an unsettlingly fast TVG Duplex double decker train, which is at least one two many decks for Bucky’s liking. Still, he takes a photo and sends it to Steve before boarding.  
In six hours the train speeds from Paris to Munich while Bucky slumps in his seat with his latest book, ‘TThe Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ which Barton had loaned to him because the man thinks he’s fuckin’ hilarious. He also has ‘The Time Traveler's Wife’ buried in his bag. He has a week in Budapest ahead of him, which he is trying not to think about.  
He loves Sziget, it’s one of the largest music festivals in Europe, held on an island on the river Danube. Over four hundred thousand people attend over the week long festival, which is approximately four thousand more people than he’d like to be dealing with. But it’s a spectacular event where the music is almost an afterthought, with theatre, cinema, sports, cabaret, a full sized goddamn _fairground_ and bungee jumping, which Bucky finds slightly ridiculous.  
It is also a rarity in the music festival circuit in that it celebrates Romani culture and music. In previous years there had been a dedicated Roma tent for music, but this year the World Music Stage was placing an emphasis on Romani music. Dhoad Gypsies, Taraf de Haidouks, Boban Markovic and Parno Graszt. And Gogol Bordello. So Bucky would have begged, stolen and borrowed to go there if he wasn’t already being paid to, and the organisers were thrilled to have security staff that spoke Kalderash. The event prided itself on equality, celebrating LGBT and whatever other acronyms people stick on there these days along with everything else. Bucky was more than a little relieved that the World Music stage was only operating for the last five days of the festival, he didn’t think he could handle a whole week of the place.  
Bucky had been texting Steve practically non stop over the last few days about the musicians performing at Sziget, funny lines from the book he’s reading and travel to Budapest, while Steve responded with setlist panic attacks and incomprehensible shanty lyrics. Bucky could tell he was low key freaking out over playing such a large event, but he had kept his word and gotten in touch with Coulson, who was a calming influence at least. 

The overly deckered train arrives in Munich Hauptbahnhof at 21:36 and Bucky grabs his backpack and wanders around the station. It’s two hours before his next train, so he leaves the station and walks around the nocturnal streets of Munich City Centre.  
He returns to the station in time to board the 23:36 train to Budapest.  
The Kalman Imre is a Hungarian sleeper train. Sleek, modern and air conditioned, it offers sleeping car compartments with washbasins for people who want to pretend they’re in a Hitchcock film, modern four or six berth couchette cars where for slightly less money you can sleep on a glorified shelf, and for €29 you can spend the night in a seat. Since Bucky doesn’t have an extra €110 or an inclination to live in a Hitchcock film he spends the ten hour journey slumped sideways in a seat, legs across the empty seat next to him and feet dangling in the aisle. He takes a selfie of his night time accommodation and sends it to Steve, who sends a sad face in return. Fuckin’ punk.  
He reads for a while, then takes off his jacket and folds it into a makeshift pillow. He gets as comfortable as he can and dozes off, lulled by the steady hum and motion of the train.  
He wakes up far too early, so shifts around in his seat until he’s looking out the window at the Hungarian countryside speeding past. 

The train arrives at Keleti Station at 09:24 and Bucky hefts his backpack onto his shoulders and shuffles through the station, muscles stiff and aching. He weighs up between buying a transfer ticket and a Citypass, but eventually decides on the transfer ticket as it's a hell of alot cheaper and he’s not going to be doing much travelling around the city once he gets to the festival. He follows the signs to the Metro and boards the Red Line to Batthyányi Tér station. From there he finds the HÉV lines and boards the wagon chain to Filatorigát. From there it’s a short walk to the K bridge, a banner festooned walkway onto the island.  
He heads over to the security office to check in. Sziget hires around nine hundred security staff, around ten percent are women. Some work in plain sight in uniform around the site, others are plain clothed on campsites and around the festival watching out for drug use. Bucky signs in and gets handed a walkie talkie and an ID badge. His schedule is the World Music stage and site security, but he’ll also no doubt get called out to deal with situations around the area. There are several other Romani speakers working at the festival as well as a dedicated team of translators. He shudders at the thought of organising the whole damn thing and heads over to find a good spot to pitch his tent.  
He finds a patch near the World Music stage upwind from the toilets and close enough to the trees for shade but not so close he’ll wake up to someone pissing on his tent in the night. He shoves his wallet and phone into his pockets, clips his walkie talkie to his belt and goes for a walk around the festival, getting the lay of the land and figuring out where everything is on the map before heading over to the World Music stage for his first shift.

There are a couple of other security staff working the stage, which is one of the smaller ones of the festival. The crowds are fairly decent and there to listen to music rather than wreck up the place. He’s already heard horror stories about the main stage crowds, which seems to be a single massive entity that is sixteen, drunk and has a lemming-like desire to hurl itself into oblivion.  
He gets a text from Steve while he’s watching the Antwerp Gypsy Ska Orchestra. He’s performing the Europe stage on Friday, so will be arriving Thursday. _Please come and rescue me Bucky, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Bucky._ Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. The Europe stage is pretty relaxed, and the crowds easy to manage. He’d maybe get a thousand people in the audience if it doesn’t clash with a big hitter on the main stage. Bucky checks his schedule and sends a text back promising to come to the rescue if Steve fails to follow the enormous crowd of drunken teenagers and massive signs. Steve responds with the word ‘Jerk’.  
At the end of his shift he heads out into the crowds and buys a falafel wrap from a food stall. From the price he can only assume that the hummus must have gold dust mixed into it. He walks around for a while and ambles over to the Cirque du Sziget to watch people do physical feats in skintight lycra and play around with fire.  
He returns to his tent when it starts to get dark, kicking off his boots and climbing into his sleeping bag. Despite the Djing in the nearby stage, he manages to fall asleep.

Bucky wakes up early and hauls himself out of his tent. He slips his boots on unlaced, shoves his wallet and phone into his pockets and stumbles down to the toilet cubicles. He pisses and brushes his teeth before returning to his tent for a clean t-shirt. He grabs an apple, deciding against the suspicious looking protein bars and wanders down to the Travelling Funfair. It’s early enough that the giant ferris wheel is still and silent, stark white against the blue sky. He buys a cup of coffee when he has finished his apple and sits on the trampled grass, watching the festival slowly wake up until his shift starts.  
He is put on site security for the day's shift, which is mostly just keeping drunk teenagers from doing anything stupid, like trying to swim in the Danube. The river is huge, fast-flowing and frankly disgusting, having filtered through most of Germany and Austria before reaching Hungary. He walks his circuit on the site, occasionally stopping to drag a festival goer who has had too much beer and passed out in the fucking _sun_ to one of the first aid areas for rehydration by staff more patient than he is. His day passes quickly, trying to get half the people out of water and get water in the other half. 

At the end of his shift he walks over to the Giant Street Theatre and watches alarmingly talented people throw themselves around on stage. It takes him a minute to realise that his phone is ringing. He pulls it out of his pocket and checks the incoming call. It’s Steve.  
He moves away from the performers, answering the call and putting the phone to his ear. Steve never calls him.  
“Steve?” he says warily.  
“Bucky? Where are you?” his voice sounds oddly shrill, agitated.  
“Street Theatre. What’s going on?”  
Steve lets out a strangled noise.  
“What’s up? I’m fucked is what’s up!” he snaps. There’s a moment's pause. “What am I gonna do?”  
Bucky keeps moving away from the noise of the theatre, keeping his voice calm as he speaks.  
“Steve, where are you?”  
“Uh. Backstage, I think. I don’t know”. He’s panicking, Bucky can hear his laboured breathing.  
“Okay, Steve. I need you to take a breath for me,” he says slowly.  
Steve takes a deep breath. Too deep. Bucky positions himself behind a tree, lowering his voice.  
“Alright, that's great. Can you breath with me? Breathe out,” he counts to five. “Breathe in. That’s right, Stevie. Breathe out”.  
He continues for a minute, counting breaths until Steve lets out a huff and says he’s okay. Bucky doesn’t believe him for a second.  
“Okay, do you know where you are?” he asks.  
“Sziget,” Steve mutters. “I’m… Fuck, I don’t know”.  
“Alright,” Bucky soothes. “Can you see a ferris wheel?”  
“It’s kinda hard to miss, Buck,” he says flatly.  
“Okay, meet me there? I’m on my way now”.  
He keeps his phone pressed to his ear, laughing as Steve swears at the festival goers barrelling into him and complaining at how drunk everyone is. He makes reassuring noises when he gets too agitated and asks him to describe his surroundings, keeping him focused and making him laugh.

Bucky reaches the ferris wheel first, still listening to Steve muttering soft exclamations at his surroundings over the phone. He spots him in the distance, taking a moment to be grateful the man is so damn tall, and waves to him. Steve sees him and picks up his pace, jogging over to the security barrier around the wheel where Bucky is standing. Before he gets the chance to speak Steve throws his arms around him and crushes him in a hug.  
“Ooof,” he gasps, patting him on the back. “Hey, Stevie”.  
Steve says nothing, just presses his face to Bucky’s shoulder and squeezes him tighter.  
“Alright, gonna need to breathe at some point,” he says finally.  
It still aches when Steve pulls away, but he keeps one arm loosely around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky wraps an arm around his waist and guides him across the fairground. As they walk Steve seems to calm down, though doesn't remove his arm or pull away from Bucky’s hold.  
“So whats going on, Steve?” Bucky asks, steering them across the grass away from the crowds. Steve rubs his face and shakes his head.  
“They’ve moved my slot,” he says quietly.  
Bucky keeps them moving and waits for him to speak.  
“Uh, you know I was supposed to play the Europe stage Friday?” Bucky nods. “I’m playing Saturday instead”.  
“Well, that’s not so bad,” Bucky says. The crowds may get to maybe a few thousand, but it’s an open air stage, so not claustrophobic.  
“On the A38 stage,” Steve mutters.  
Bucky jerks to a halt and swears loudly. The OTP BANK A38 stage is a huge red and white striped tent with a capacity of around fifteen thousand people. It’s the hot spot for the festival, and playing it is a serious deal. Steve pales at his outburst.  
“Alright we’re going to find alcohol, sit under some trees and you’re going to explain what is going on, okay?” Bucky says firmly.  
Steve nods silently and sticks close to his side as Bucky marches over to the food stalls and buys two cans of Dreher classic. He leads Steve over to a cluster of trees near the river and they sit down in the shade. He tosses a can to Steve and cracks his own open. It’s a nice enough lager, pale and refreshing and strong. Steve opens his and takes a mouthful. After a minute Bucky nudges his foot.  
“What’s going on, Stevie?”  
Steve swallows some more beer and bites his lip.  
“So, the record company released this single just before Latitude, and this DJ picked up on it and started giving it airtime,” he rubs his eyes and sighs. “We had to make a music video. I’ve never been so embarrassed”.  
He shakes his head and smiles.  
“Coulson has been great, though. He’s really saved my ass”.  
Bucky grins at that. He’s been texting back and forth with Coulson over the last few weeks, and he’d been a huge fan of Steve's music.  
“That’s good, you got him in your corner,” he says quietly.  
Steve gives him a nudge.  
“Got you in my corner”.  
Bucky ducks his head and drinks some more beer.  
“Well I am the greatest,” he says with a smile.  
Steve nods and fiddles with his beer can.  
“What am I gonna do, Buck?” he asks quietly.  
Bucky finishes his beer and leans back against a tree trunk.  
“I’m gonna need to see that music video first,” he says with a smirk.  
Steve yelps and kicks at his ankles while he twists away and laughs.  
Bucky gets to his feet, picking up his empty beer can and holding his other hand out to Steve. Steve accepts the help up and they start walking across the grass, pausing to drop the cans in the trash.  
“Okay, let's go check out the stage. Then we can make a plan”.  
The A38 Stage is close to the funfair, so it’s a short walk to reach it. The evening performances are well under way, so they squeeze under the canvas and watch the gig for a while. It’s hot and dark and smells like a thousand alcoholics who have never bathed. Steve twitches and starts moving towards the exit, but Bucky hooks an arm around his shoulder and pulls him further into the venue. They find a less cramped spot where they can still see the stage, if not the performers and watch the crowd. The vibe is positive, no one is starting fights or heckling the performers. Everyone is there to have a good time, and the security is efficient and unobtrusive. He’s worked festivals where security has been a scowling wall of muscles in front of the stage, and the organisers were baffled that the public didn’t respond well to it.  
At the end of the performance they file out of the venue with the crowd and break away, walking through the trees to the water's edge.  
Bucky sits down on the dirt and watches Steve pacing back and forth.  
“It’s a good crowd, no fighting in the mosh pit or chucking stuff at the stage,” he offers. “The security here is better than most places. They don’t treat the audience like scum”.  
Steve kicks at the grass listlessly.  
“I’m not really the kind of singer who has mosh pits,” he mutters dejectedly.  
Bucky stares out across the water, his gaze resting on the A38, a former Ukraine stone carrier ship that had been repurposed as a bar and nightclub. It was currently moored up on the island, it’s reinforced gangplanks allowing festival-goers on board.  
“What time are you on?”  
“Uh. Four forty five,” he sighs.  
“In festival time that's five o’clock,” he says absently.  
An island festival, and a ship moored. He taps his fingers to his mouth and grins suddenly.  
“Stevie,” he says softly.  
“What?”  
“Pirates”.

Bucky heads back to the food vans for more beer, because it is a conversation that requires more beer. He also buys a couple of falafel wraps, because more beer on an empty stomach is less helpful to the conversation than no beer at all.  
He walks back up the bank where Steve is still sat, staring at the river flowing past. Bucky drops the cans of lager on the grass and hands Steve his food. He sits cross-legged on the grass beside him and bites into his wrap.  
“Bucky, you can’t be serious?” Steve says quietly, poking at the flatbread he’s been given.  
Bucky pulls a chunk of pickled turnip out of his wrap and waves the vivid pink slice at Steve.  
“It is fucking perfect, Steve,” he says cheerfully. “Everybody loves sea shanties”.  
Steve shakes his head, snatching the chunk of turnip out of Bucky’s hand and eating it out of spite. Bucky grins at him and cracks open his can of beer.  
“It’s the first gig of the night, and it’s the weekend. People are gonna be drunk. Drunk people fuckin’ love pirates. You get up there and teach them to sing some short haul shanties, throw in a couple of fo‘c’sle songs, they’ll go nuts”.  
Steve takes a bite of wrap and chews thoughtfully.  
“I guess… There’s some good ones in that book you got me”.  
Bucky manages not to choke on his beer. The book he had bought at Glastonbury and snuck into Steve’s guitar case. Right before everything between them went to shit.  
“You… You kept it?” he says warily.  
Steve smiles at him, soft and warm.  
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “yeah, it’s great”. He hesitates, then takes another bite of wrap, avoiding Bucky’s eye.  
Bucky lets the matter lie and swallows some more beer.  
“So we need to figure out a set. You want any original stuff?” Bucky asks. Steve shakes his head. “You gotta have the single at least”.  
Steve grumbles a little, but agrees. Bucky fishes another chunk of turnip out of his wrap and chews it thoughtfully.  
_“Blood Red Roses_ ,” he mutters. Steve nods enthusiastically.  
_“Fathom the Bowl_?” he counters. Bucky hums in agreement, mouth full of falafel.  
_“Hanging Johnny_ or _Haul Away, Joe_?” Bucky muses.  
Steve looks over at him.  
“Bucky?”  
Bucky glances at him. “Yeah?”  
Steve shakes his head.  
“That stage is huge. I can’t… I can’t do it. I can’t stand in front of all those people and sing about brandy,” he drops his half eaten wrap in his lap and buries his face in his hands.  
Bucky opens the second can of beer and taps his knee with it.  
“Drink,” he orders. Steve accepts the proffered can and takes a small sip. Bucky finishes his wrap and balls up the paper wrapper.  
“Okay, first of all you won’t be on your own, I’ll be there with you.” Steve smiles weakly at him. “Second, you can sing about brandy. And whisky and cider and definitely rum. They love it when you sing about rum”.  
Bucky smiles and leans against him.  
“You’re not dressing up in a costume, you’re not invalidating your art,” Steve snorts derisively at him. “You are going to go up on stage and sing, and forty minutes later we are going to get seriously drunk. Okay?”  
Steve nods, pressing against his side.  
“Okay”.

Bucky takes him on a short tour of the island, pointing out the different stages and attractions. Steve is enthralled by the Luminárium art installation, a labyrinthine set of tunnels celebrating colour and architecture. They wander through the alien landscape of liquid light, and Bucky watches Steve’s face light up with soft colours as he tilts his head back to marvel at the vaulted domes. It’s getting dark when they make their way out again and they sit on the trampled dirt to watch the fire jugglers. Steve rests his head on Bucky's shoulder, and Bucky wraps an arm around him, close and warm. He lays his hand on Steve’s hip, his thumb tracing the curve of his ribs.  
He reluctantly gives Steve a gentle shake when he starts to doze off. He grumbles but doesn’t pulls away or sit up.  
“C’mon Stevie,” Bucky murmurs. “Where are you staying? You got one of those wooden huts?”  
Steve laughs and shakes his head, still curled up against Bucky.  
“Tent,” he mutters. Bucky laughs.  
“Steve Rogers, are you slumming it?”  
Steve pokes him in the ribs.  
“Jerk. Pre-pitched tent,” he responds.  
Bucky grins at him. “VIP camping?”  
Steve bites his lip and nods silently. Bucky chuckles and gives him a shove.  
“Come on then,” he says, getting to his feet.  
He helps Steve up, who is still groggy and a little unsteady. They walk north to the VIP campsite, stumbling over the uneven ground. Steve hesitates a moment before giving Bucky a gentle smile and saying goodnight.  
Bucky traipses back to his tent, kicks off his boots, climbs into his sleeping bag, and falls asleep.

Bucky wakes to sunshine and a stuffy tent. He unzips the canvas and crawls out onto the grass, sprawling on his back in the dappled light. He dozes for a while until his phone chimes at him. 

**Stevie:** _You awake?_

Bucky thumbs open the keyboard and types out a response.

**Barnes:** _No_

He rummages around in his tent for clean clothes, pulls on his boots, grabs his toiletries and walks over to the shower cubicles. While he’s waiting in the queue his phone chimes again.

**Stevie:** _I’ll buy you coffee_

**Barnes:** _Fine. Bring guitar. Meet you at the dragon eggs_

He showers quickly, brushing his teeth and shaving in the cubicle, and pulling clean clothes onto still damp skin. He heads back to his tent to dump his dirty clothes and lace up his boots. He clips his walkie talkie onto his belt and walks south to the village.  
Along with music and theatre, art installations were a large part of Sziget. After seeing Steve’s response to the Luminárium the previous evening Bucky thought he would like the Dragon eggs, a series of large ovoids shaped from interwoven slats of wood. Several people could comfortably fit inside each egg shape, and he thought Steve would appreciate the work that had gone into them.  
“I thought you were kidding about the Dragon eggs,” a soft voice says in his ear.  
Bucky yelps and turns around to see Steve holding two paper cups of coffee, his soft guitar case slung over his shoulder. Bucky grabs a coffee and gives him a one armed hug, which Steve returns willingly. Bucky grabs his free arm and leads him around the display to an empty egg. He steps through the rounded aperture and sits down on the curved slat floor. Steve follows, slipping the guitar off his shoulders and setting it down on the ground. He walks a slow circle around the interior of the Dragon egg, letting his fingers brush along the curved strips of wood. Bucky drinks his coffee and leans back against the curved walls. It’s surprisingly comfortable. Steve sits down next to him, staring up at the criss-crossed slats above them and sipping at his coffee.  
They sit in silence for a while until they finish their coffees and Steve unzips his guitar case. He pulls out his notebook and pen, and his copy of Boxing the Compass. Bucky’s stomach gives an odd little lurch when he sees how well-thumbed and full of bookmarks it is. Steve lifts out his guitar and sets it beside him before picking up his notebook and turning to a fresh page. Bucky picks up the book and flips through it, careful not to lose the strips of paper and post it notes jammed in between the pages. There are notes scrawled in the margins, snatches of lyrics in blank spaces between the text. The book is well used and well loved and for a moment he feels like his heart is going to burst.  
He takes a breath and swallows down the lump in his throat. He turns the pages and starts reading out titles.

They spend the morning bickering good naturedly and working out a setlist. There are some numbers that Steve flat out refuses to sing ‘I’m not singing ‘rub-a-dub-dub’ in public, Buck. I don’t care how great the song is’ and some that they both agree against due to the, uh, _old fashioned_ lyrics. They argue over _The Rolling Sailor_ versus _Rolling Home_ and rework the lyrics to _The Dreadnaught_ to make it easier for a crowd of drunks to sing along to. Bucky makes enough of a fuss about getting at least one Tom Waits song in there on principle alone that Steve relents and they manage to work out a way of making Innocent When you Dream a call-and-response shanty.  
When they’re satisfied with the list Steve sets his guitar on his knee and starts to play. He runs through the set a couple of times, making adjustments here and there as he plays while Bucky hums softly along.  
They take a break for lunch and leave the Dragon eggs in search of food. Bucky persuades Steve to try _lángos_ , a deep fried flatbread spread with sour cream and grated cheese. They sit in the shade of the trees with their bread and work some more on Steve’s performance. Bucky talks about the traditions of sailor songs, chewing pieces of bread and dripping sour cream on the grass. They figure out the easiest way of explaining the different kinds of shanties and how to get the audience engaged.  
Finally Bucky rubs his eyes and calls it quits.  
“Alright, I gotta go to work,” he says reluctantly.  
Steve walks with him to the World Music stage, and lingers at the security gate. He nervously suggests staying around for a while, and Bucky wastes no time getting him tucked in a corner by the barrier in front of the stage, positioned where Bucky can keep an eye on the crowd and they can still talk to each other.  
Steve responds well to the music, enjoying the rare opportunity to hear acts from Greece, Portugal and Colombia. The final performance is Besh o Drom, who leave the stage shortly after midnight. Bucky’s shift ends just as the DJing starts up and they head out into the festival.  
Bucky has a shift in the morning so he walks Steve back to his campsite, their shoulders bumping occasionally. Steve hugs him goodnight, mumbling thanks against his shoulder. Bucky chuckles and ruffles his hair before sending him off.  
He walks back to his tent, kicking off his boots and crawling under the canvas. He sets an alarm on his phone and burrows into his sleeping bag. Despite the Dj set from the nearby stage, he quickly falls asleep.

Bucky is woken up by his alarm and scrambles out of his tent. He heads to the toilets for a piss and to brush his teeth, then returns to his tent to put on a clean t-shirt. He pockets his phone and wallet, clips his walkie talkie to his belt and walks down to the festival.  
It’s a quiet morning, with most festival goers passed out in their tents. There are a few revellers dancing around or sleeping on the walkways. Bucky manages to nudge the sleepers awake and get them moved to shelter with a bottle of water.  
He is surprised to see Steve appear halfway through his shift. He is still half-groggy and gives him a hug, complaining about how the island is too damn big. He heads off to a food stall and comes back a short while later with coffee and doughnuts. They eat their breakfasts on the move, walking down to the beach where Bucky checks that no one is trying to kill themselves. Steve is in good spirits and not too nervous about performing later and Bucky distracts him with stories of festival-goers. His recounting of the Space Cowboys leaves Steve in hysterics, and he has to sit down for a few minutes.  
The morning passes a lot more quickly with company, and at the end of his shift they wander around the museum quarter for a while, looking at the exhibits.  
Steve claims he isn’t hungry when asked about getting lunch, so Bucky ignores him and drags them to a food stand for some pizza. They sit under the trees with their slices and watch the crowds moving past, and Steve finally says that he needs to get back to his tent and pick up his guitar.  
They walk slowly northwards, and Bucky slips his arm around Steve's waist. He tangles their fingers together and bites down on the words crowding his mouth. He can’t swallow them down, so he leans in close and sings softly.

_“Voliv tut ages, voliv tut tehara,_  
_Voliv tut nai desar mai anglal_  
_Khel, khel, khel thai gilaba_  
_Av vesolo, av vesolo”_

Steve smiles, ducking his head, so Bucky sings it again. He doesn’t answer when Steve asks him what the words mean.  
They arrive at the VIP camping, and Bucky waits outside while Steve gets cleaned up and changed. He appears a short time later with his guitar over his shoulder, dressed in khaki trousers and a blue t-shirt that brings out the colour of his eyes. Bucky wolf whistles at him as he walks over just for the pleasure of watching him blush and they walk to the A38 stage. They rehearse his lines as they walk, and run through the songs, Steve doing the calling while Bucky fills in the responses. All too soon they reach the venue and the security guard lets them backstage.  
Steve unzips his guitar case, checks the guitar is still in tune and that he has spare strings. He starts fretting quietly, pacing back and forth until Bucky gently cradles his face in his hands and speaks in a low voice, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance. The stage manager calls for him, and Bucky presses a kiss to his forehead and shoves him towards the stage. He walks around to the security barrier and tucks himself to the side of the stage behind the barrier, nodding to the other guards who recognise him and leave him be.  
Steve adjusts the strap on his guitar and walks up to the microphone.

Bucky isn’t inclined towards prayer, but for a moment he’s tempted when he sees Steve alone on the vast stage, staring out at the cavernous venue. Then he grins and asks if there are any pirates in the room. There is a faint cry of ‘Arr’ from the back and a smattering of giggles. Steve sucks on his teeth and shakes his head, he asks again and the answering ‘Arr’ is louder. He asks the crowd again, louder this time, and the response is a roar. He bursts out laughing and starts to play _‘Boney Was a Warrior’_ , bellowing the lyrics rather than singing them. The crowd quickly pick up the refrain and join in before the song ends. He talks about short-haul shanties, and has the crowd sing the response part of _‘Blood Red Roses’_ a few times before launching into the song, stamping his feet.  
The audience loves it, and he tears through song after song, ending on _‘Fathom the Bowl’_.  
He leaves the stage to thunderous applause, and Bucky quickly slips around the stage to meet up with him. Steve near screams at the sight of him and grabs him in a bear hug. Bucky tells him over and over that he did beautifully and it takes every last damn ounce of willpower not to kiss him.  
Bucky drags him out past the security gate and along the path, while Steve chatters excitedly about the performance. They walk back to VIP camping so he can stow his guitar in his tent. He is still a little high from the success, the joy of the crowd thrumming under his skin, so Bucky slips his hand into Steve's warm palm and tangles their fingers together. He leads them through the woods to the A38 ship. 

A former stone carrier, the A38 ship is an impressive sight, with five bars and a concert hall spread out across its decks. Bucky leads them to the bar on the bow of the ship and buys two bottles of Staropramen and two shots of honey flavoured _Pálinka_ , a Hungarian plum liqueur. He hands over a cup of the liqueur and they clink their plastic cups and take a sip. Steve coughs, his eyes watering.  
“What the hell is this?”  
“Pálinka. Drink up, Stevie, it’s traditional”.  
Steve takes another sip and grimaces. Bucky grins at him and swallows the rest of his cupful.  
“I say ‘traditional’, this is the over-priced piss they sell to tourists,” he says with a smirk.  
He passes Steve the bottle of beer when he chokes down the last of his liqueur.  
The beer goes down much easier, and is followed by another. They work their way through the crowded bar to the terrace to watch the sunset.  
The sky bleeds salmon and gold, and Steve lets out a sigh and leans on the barrier. Bucky watches the waters below, tapping the mouth of his bottle against his lower lip.  
“You ever think about setting up your own record label,” he says absently.  
Steve snorts and shakes his head.  
“Seriously. I was talking to this guy the other day, he couldn’t get a deal, so he started his own label,” Bucky points his bottle at Steve. “You don’t even need a recording studio anymore, just a bit of equipment. This guy does all his music in his living room”.  
Steve nods, running his thumbnail along his bottle label.  
“He does all his promotion through social media, which costs nothing. Get more money from itunes and spotify than actual CD sales,” Bucky continues. “You do things your way. Your songs, your albums, your artwork. And you wouldn’t have to deal with shit like Artist warranties,” he pauses to swallow a mouthful of beer. “Though Coulson already took care of that”.  
He sees Steve tense up, watches him take a long drink, casting his eyes down. Something cold shudders its way up Bucky's spine.  
“Actually I. Well, I left that part in,” Steve says quietly. “I thought creative control was more important”.  
Bucky nods warily. “You’re in a strong position now to renegotiate,” he says slowly.  
“Yeah,” he fidgets with his bottle. “I guess”.  
Steve shifts away slightly, and suddenly there is cold space between them.  
“I think it would be better for my career if it,” he hesitates, searching for the words. “If it wasn’t an issue”.  
Bucky tamps down on the sudden spike of anger burning just behind his sternum.  
“No one cares who you sleep with, Steve. Fuck, most girls think it’s cute”.  
“Bucky,” Steve says gently.  
“What are you gonna do when people start asking questions? Get a fake girlfriend?”  
“It wouldn’t be fake,” Steve snaps.  
Bucky stands back. For a moment he doesn’t speak. His mouth feels like it is full of small sharp stones. He presses a hand to his stomach, half expecting to find a knife lodged in there from the way it aches. That cold sensation has worked its way up his spine and is now crawling across his chest, extinguishing the burn of anger, spreading over his shoulders, wrapping around his throat. Bucky wants to ask if he’d been a fuckin’ experiment for Steve, but he doesn’t want to know the answer.  
He lets the cold wrap around his skin, trickle down his throat and squeeze his heart.  
“I’ve never pretended to be something I’m not,” he says finally.  
He can’t bring himself to look over at Steve, closed off and cold and distant. He lifts his head up to face the horizon instead, the darkening sky softening to a yellow haze over the city.  
“Steve. You gotta know how I feel about you,” he says quietly. The words ache. “And it’s okay that you don’t… That you’re not…” It burns, all those sharp little words digging away at him. “But I’m not gonna be a dirty little secret”.  
Steve lets out a soft, broken sound. Bucky shakes his head.  
“And I’m not gonna risk your career waiting to see if you change your mind”.  
Steve hunches over the railing, bottle hanging loosely from his hands. Bucky presses his hand to his back, feels the tension in his muscles, feels the steady rhythm of his heart.  
“Take care of yourself, Stevie,” he murmurs and turns away.  
Steve drops the bottle and it tumbles down into the waters below. He turns to Bucky, stumbles forward and wraps his arms around him, pulling him close. Bucky hugs him back, pressing a hand to the nape of his neck and squeezing gently.  
“You’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “You got people looking out for you”.  
Steve sniffs and shakes his head, and there is wetness against Bucky’s shoulder.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve chokes, and if his heart weren’t already broken it would crack in two at those words.  
“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s nobody's fault”.  
Bucky hugs him hard, murmuring softly in his ear, gentle soothing sounds. _Voliv tut_ , he whispers again and again.  
He gently takes Steve's hands from around his waist, squeezing his fingers before letting them fall to his sides. He tries to smile, a twitch of his lips that fools neither of them.  
“Promise me something?” he says. Steve nods, his mouth twisted.  
“You gotta stop punching security guards. Poor bastards have enough shit to deal with”.  
Steve coughs out a laugh. Bucky leans forward and cradles his face in his hand, presses a kiss to his brow.  
“You stay out of trouble,” he says softly. 

If Steve answers, Bucky doesn’t hear him. He turns away and slips through the crowd, past the bars and the drinkers and the press of bodies. He walks down the gangway to solid ground. He hesitates for a moment on the grass, some small, wretched part of him waiting to hear a voice calling out for him. But there is none, the noise and shouting is not for him, so he walks along the shoreline, head bowed, pulling his jacket tightly around himself and folding his arms across his chest.  
He stumbles in the twilight, feet catching on rocks and clumps of grass. He follows the river down to the pebble beach. It is near deserted, most of the festival goers gathered around the stages and arenas and bars. He pulls off his boots, tucking his wallet and phone into them and dropping his walkie talkie on the gravel beside them. He walks down to the water, taking slow steps into the shallows. The water is cold, rushing over his feet. He wades deeper, soaking his jeans until he is immersed to his hips. The river is fast flowing, and for a moment he thinks that if he is caught in the current and swept away it wouldn’t be so terrible. At least it would all be fuckin’ over. He wades in deeper, the water up to his waist and braces his legs against the undertow. He stands while the cold seeps into his skin, sinking into his bones, until his legs are as numb as the rest of him. He crouches down, digging his hands into the muddy riverbed and immersing himself in the water, letting it wash everything away. 

When his lungs begin to burn he straightens up, and slowly makes his way back to shore. He collects up his belongings and walks southwards to his campsite, finding his tent in the lantern light. He strips off his jeans and shirt, wringing as much water as he can out of them and draping them over his tent. He pulls a change of clothes out of his rucksack and pads barefoot to the shower cubicles to wash the silt and river mud off his body. He dresses, clothes sticking to his wet skin, and returns to his tent. He lays down on his sleeping bag, closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.

Bucky gets up early and walks down to the security office. He makes his apologies and hands over his walkie talkie and ID badge. He heads back to his tent and packs up, stuffing his damp clothes into his backpack. He rolls up his sleeping bag and folds away his tent, strapping them to his pack and hefting it onto his shoulders.  
He walks across the island to the K bridge. It’s a quiet Sunday morning, the festival goers still asleep in their tents. He crosses the bridge and follows the road down to the metro and buys a twenty four hour pass. He follows the signs for Köbánya-Kispest and sets down his pack to wait.  
He weighs up his options. He should go home, back to his poky little caravan on the south coast. He sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his list of contacts and after a moment of hesitation, he sends a message to Luis asking if he can crash for a few days. He pockets his phone when he hears the approaching train and drags his backpack with him when he gets on board. Luis responds to his message with equal parts enthusiasm and demand for a toblerone from the duty free.  
From Köbánya-Kispest he gets a bus to the Ferenc Liszt Airport and books a Ryanair flight to Stansted airport. He buys a cup of coffee and sits in the departure lounge, his book open but unread in his lap. 

_Voliv tut ages, voliv tut tehára_  
_Voliv tut mai but desar mal anglal_  
_Khel, khel, khel thai gilaba_  
_Av vésolo, av vésolo_

I love you today I’ll love you tomorrow  
I’ll love you much more than ever before  
Dance, dance, dance and sing  
Be happy, be happy


	5. The Green Man Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They don't teach you this in school," he says finally. "They teach you math and history, but they don't tell you how to make the right decision, or how to fix it when you've made the wrong one. They don't teach you how to say sorry, or how to say goodbye".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter five, woo!  
> 'Here's the Tender Coming" is a press gang song from the 1790's. Get to the internet and listen to the version performed by The Unthanks.
> 
> The dinky little pie van is in fact the Pieminister pie van. If you've been working festivals all sumer, if you've been in a tent in the rain, if you spent all your money on questionable cider, the Pieminister van is a chariot driven by angels that offers manna from heaven in recyclable cardboard cartons. Their pies, my friends. Sweet zombie jeesus, their pies.
> 
> You can find me on thelittleblackfox.tumblr though I can't imagine why you'd want to

The Green Man festival is held in the Brecon Beacons in Wales. It’s damn near impossible to get to by anything other than vehicle or perhaps a sled hauled by goats, so Bucky hitches a lift with Barton and several thousand bottles of cloudy cider. Bucky doesn’t mind so much being cramped in the back of a van surrounded by cases of very heavy scrumpy that could crush him if Barton takes a roundabout too sharply, it’s the names he objects to. He has been squashed between crates of Flannel Mouth and Ginger Pig and Shaky Bridge for five hours, and the less said about putting fruit other than apples and the occasional pear in cider the better.  
He hammers on the wall when Barton takes a corner a little too sharply and a crate of Berry Slayer nearly decapitates him. There is a muffled apology accompanied by a fair amount of cackling. Bucky hunches down in his bucket seat and suppress any murderous thought about rhubarb and custard flavoured cider or the affluent middle classes who drink it.  
The van finally slows and comes to a halt. He can hear the muffled sounds of people talking before they start moving again, slowly over rough ground, until finally coming to a stop. The sounds of the diesel engine being turned off is the sweetest thing Bucky has heard in weeks. The side door of the van slides open and Barton grins at him. Bucky unbuckles himself from his seat and scrambles out, legs stiff and aching. He drags his backpack out from its perch on top of the boxes of crown marked plastic glasses and mutters his thanks to Barton before heading down to the security office.

The festival and camping area sprawls across Glanusk park, the gentle rolling hills, dense conifers and river Usk home to twenty thousand people over the four day festival. In a long summer of music festivals, it’s one of Bucky’s favourites. After the chaos of Sziget a few days in the countryside with a small crowd of festival goers more interested in pie and folk music than getting leathered and fighting each other is a welcome relief, even if the pies are made by bearded hipsters.  
The security is fairly low key, manning stages and patrols. There’s not the drunks passed out in the thoroughfares like at Sziget or the drugs busts of Latitude. No one has ever rioted over Calexico or thrown bottles of piss at Neutral Milk Hotel.  
He finds Natasha in a wooden chalet that has been appropriated for festival security. He drops his backpack on the grass and knocks on the doorframe, she gets up from her table and gives him a hug. He pats her on the back.  
“Hey, Nat,” he says softly.  
She grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him back, taking a good long look at him.  
“You look like hell, Barnes,” she says, scowling.  
“Yeah, I just got back,” he says with a weak smile.  
She grimaces and shakes her head.  
“You okay to work?” she asks.  
“Yeah, fine,” he mutters, giving her a wary glance. “What did Luis tell you?”  
She snorts and lets go of him, he manages not to stumble at the loss of contact.  
“Nothing!” Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Okay, not nothing, mostly that you weren’t doing so great, someone needs punching for it and we need a code for Public Service Broadcasting in case it happens again”.  
Bucky lets out a surprised laugh at that.  
“Yeah, fuck. Space Cowboys,” he smiles.  
She sits down at the table, fetching a walkie talkie and plastic ID badge. Bucky sits opposite and recounts the story, much to her amusement.  
“Okay,” she says with a laugh. “Patrons caught in compromising situations that require medical intervention is now officially ‘Space Cowboys’. I hope you’re proud”.  
Bucky nods, picking up his badge and radio and saying his goodbyes before Natasha can say anything kind and get him all out of sorts. He hefts his bag onto his shoulders and heads to the campsite.

He finds a secluded spot in the shade of some trees, far enough from the river to avoid midges and sets up his tent. He lies on the grass for a while. It’s an overcast day, but warm, and he dozes in the dappled shade for the remainder of the morning.  
He wakes up feeling groggy and stiff, and takes a few minutes to get to his feet. He zips up his tent, clips his walkie talkie to his belt and walks over to the festival site. He finds Barton in the courtyard and helps with setting up the bar and the marquee. It’s hard work, requiring a fair amount of coordination and some swearing on Barton's part before it’s assembled. They pull the awning into position and strap it into place.  
The bar is long and narrow and tucked on one side of the courtyard that runs between the Mountain stage and the Far Out stage. Over the next few days his small army of bar staff will arrive and the rest of the festival for Barton will be spent trying to keep up with demand for overpriced beer and artisanal cider.  
They walk over to the main arena and sit on the grass to watch the day labourers setting up the Mountain stage. It’ll be another day before the site fills up with merchandise stalls and food vendors and the day after the festival will start. In the meantime they make the most of the relative peace and quiet.  
Bucky gets to his feet when his shift is due to start and mutters a ‘see you later’ to Barton before heading down the hill to the main entrance. He relieves the security guard on duty, a guy named Kurt that he’s seen around at a few festivals. He’s hard to miss with his Elvis haircut, but he’s a decent enough sort. 

The afternoon gate duty is fairly quiet, but for a few early vendors and labourers setting up. Bucky checks paperwork and vehicle passes, giving out directions and advice. When not letting people in he props himself up against the gate post and looks out at the Brecon Beacons. He breathes deeply and doesn’t let himself think, humming softly and singing under his breath.

_“Hey, bonny lassie let's go to the Lawe_  
_To see the tender lying off at Shield's Bar_  
_With her colours flying, anchor at her bow_  
_She took my bonny laddie, best of all the crew”._

Scott arrives, looking bleary eyed from a long day of travelling, at the end of his shift to replace him. They lean against the gate and stare at the sunset for a while before Bucky heads back to his tent. He kicks off his boots and climbs into his sleeping bag, curling up into a ball and falling asleep.

Bucky wakes up mid morning and hauls himself out of his tent. He pulls on a clean t-shirt, laces up his boots, pockets his wallet and phone and clips his walkie talkie to his belt. He stretches and ambles across the field to the toilets to piss and brush his teeth before heading to the festival site. The Thali cafe stand has opened and he finds Barton and Natasha sat at one of the wooden tables under the domed awning. Bucky nods to them before heading over to the counter.  
The Thali cafe is a staple of the Green man festival, positioned at the top of the natural amphitheatre in front of the Mountain stage. As its name suggests, it only serves thali, an Indian platter served in a steel tray with multiple compartments similar to a prison or high school food tray, filled with an assortment of curries, flatbread and chutney. He orders a breakfast thali and coffee from the owner, a man with a scrapyard worth of piercings and a patchy beard. He has a metal hook where his right hand should be and eyes far older than the rest of his face. Bucky gets a circular plate filled with turmeric-yellow potatoes, spiced scrambled eggs, tomato chutney and a folded flatbread. He grabs a wooden fork and his paper cup of coffee and joins Natasha and Barton at their table. He sits down and shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth. They’re sweet and spicy, not exactly five star catering but at this point in the festival circuit Bucky is grateful for anything resembling real food.  
They talk over their coffees a while before Barton heads back to setting up the bar, leaving Bucky and Natasha to go over the security detail for the festival. She spreads her staff list and schedules over the table and starts finalising her rotas. Bucky looks over at his sheet and frowns. He picks it up and waves at her.  
“Where’s the rest of my shifts, you giving me the weekend off?”  
She scowls at him.  
“It’s Reading next weekend, don’t want you burning out on me,” she says flatly.  
Bucky drops the rota on the table. She has a point, damnit. He rests his elbow on the table, setting his chin on his palm, watching her work.  
“You’ll tell me if you get stuck though?” he asks finally.  
She snorts at him but nods her head. He finishes his coffee and gets up, heading over to the courtyard to help Barton finish setting up the bar before going down to the main gate to start his shift. 

Luis is at the gate, having had the morning shift. He throws his arms in the air when he sees Bucky walking up the road and yells out his name, and Bucky is only slightly tempted to turn around and run. He ducks his head down and marches over, letting Luis hug him and fuss over him, muttering all the while that he’s fine, dammit.  
The lean against the gate and look at the view of the distant mountain range while Luis chatters away about seeing Hot Chip and meeting Father John Misty at an earlier festival, who had turned out to be a bit of an asshole. Bucky in turn tells him about the Fall and breaking up a fist fight between the lead singer and a photographer.  
“You shittin’ me?” Luis asks, incredulous.  
“I swear on my life,” Bucky raises a hand. “Halfway through _High Tension Line_ , just leapt off the stage and started swingin’. Nearly gave me a fuckin’ heart attack”.  
“He an’ the guy have a history?”  
“Nah,” Bucky snorts, “Didn’t like that the guy was taking more pictures of the guitar player than him”.  
Luis shakes his head. “That’s fucked up”.  
“It was fine,” Bucky shrugs. “He got it out of his system, got back on stage and carried on with the song”.  
“Professional to the end, huh?” Luis says with a snort.  
Luis finally starts walking back to the festival site and leaves Bucky to his shift. The day is busy, checking tickets and vehicle passes of food vendors and merchandise stalls, performance troupes and environmental activists. Bucky barely has time to stop and think, which he’s fine with, keeping busy handing out maps and giving directions to the assortment of transit vans and motorhomes that trundle past.  
At the end of his shift he’s surprised to see Pietro and Wanda walking up the road. He hasn’t seen either of them since Glastonbury, but figures if they were into the Glasto scene then they’d like it at Green Man too. They’ve spent the summer interrailing around Europe and working the big festivals like EXIT in Serbia and Benicàssim in Spain. Neither of the look like they have scurvy or are about to die of malnutrition, so he mentions a couple of events coming up in Croatia and the Czech Republic, and gives them some contact details for Sziget for next year. He says his goodbyes and walks back down the road to the festival site.

Over the eight hours he was on duty the whole festival has been set up, the stages erected and the natural amphitheatre around the Mountain stage lined with food vans and merch stalls. Even the camping grounds were starting to fill up with tents and campervans.  
The festival doesn’t officially start until tomorrow, and in the morning more people will arrive with their tents and vans looking for a decent spot to pitch for the weekend.  
Bucky nods to the security at the newly erected gate at the festival entrance and wanders across the grass to the food stalls. He is debating getting some Goan curry when he spots a copy of the festival line up taped to the side of the Louisiana BBQ stall. In the Saturday afternoon slot on the Mountain stage is the name Steve Rogers. Bucky swallows and takes an involuntary step back, appetite lost. He turns around and walks over to the Courtyard instead, propping himself up at the bar and looking around for Barton, who appears a few moments later hefting a case of lager. He frowns at Bucky.  
“You okay, Barnes?”  
Bucky nods absently, scrubbing his hand across his face. Barton sets the case on the floor and pulls a bottle out, setting it on the bar in front of Bucky.  
“This is a one time thing,” he says with a grin. “Don’t get used to it”.  
Bucky smiles at him and opens the bottle. It’s a little warm from being stored in the back of a van for a few days, but he’s not picky. He drains the bottle in a single, slow swallow, setting the empty bottle down on the bar. Barton snatches it and drops it in one of his recycling bins before telling Bucky to piss off and get some rest.  
Bucky heads back out to the main arena, passing through the security gate and down to the campsite. Across the field he can see a handful of yurts scattered amongst the trees along with a couple of mock Bedouin tents and tipi’s.  
He unzips his tent and kicks off his boots, fetching his book and one of Barton’s dubious whey protein bars from his backpack. He cracks open Flowers for Algernon and starts to read. The protein bar bears no relation to coconut, he’d bet his damned life on it. When it gets too dark to read he climbs into his sleeping bag and tries to sleep.

Bucky wakes up early and spends a couple of minutes staring at the canvas of his tent before silently berating himself and getting up. It’s early enough to get away with a shower, so he gathers up a change of clothes and his toiletries and pads across the dewy grass to the shower cubicles. He rinses the dust and grease of the last few days off with tepid water, shaves and brushes his teeth. He pulls clean clothes on over wet skin, his t-shirt catching and clinging awkwardly to his back. He shakes the fabric loose as he walks back to his tent, dumping his dirty clothes and shoving his phone and wallet in his pockets. He clips his walkie talkie to his belt and heads down to the festival site. The field he’s camping in is quickly filling up, he circles the tents, avoiding the lines and guy ropes on his way across the grass. He nods to the security guard at the festival entrance and heads for the Thali cafe. He sees Scott dozing over a half eaten tray of scrambled eggs as he joins the short queue, and orders a second cup of coffee with his breakfast. He drops his tray of eggs, curried vegetables and potatoes on the table opposite Scott, nudging him awake and placing the coffee in front of him. Scott grunts and pulls the paper cup close to his chest. Bucky scoops up a forkful of peas and cauliflower and suppresses a laugh when Scott glares at him.  
“How can you eat that?” Scott grumbles, sipping his coffee.  
“Over a billion people in India,” he says with a smile. “You think they all eat cheerios?”  
Scott grimaces and sticks with his coffee. Bucky snorts and spears a potato with his wooden fork.  
“What shift you got?” he asks, dunking his potato in tomato chutney.  
“Main gate. You?”  
“Wristband exchange,” he chews and swallows.  
They sit in silence awhile, Scott reluctantly poking at his breakfast while Bucky finishes his and drinks his coffee.  
“Can you seriously make a living from all this,” Scott mutters, waving his fork around.  
Bucky shrugs, swirling the dregs of his coffee around in his cup.  
“Yeah,” he says finally. “You get to hear a lot of music, you see the same folks year after year”. He pauses, tapping his cup on the table. “But you spend a lot of time on the road, an’ it wears you down after a while”. He downs the last of his coffee. “There’s no pension or retirement plan”. He shrugs, setting down his cup. “It works until it doesn’t”.  
“Then what?” Scott mutters. Bucky shrugs.

He gets up, collecting their trays and cups, dropping the cups in the trash and setting the trays on the side. He waves to Scott and traipses across the field to the wristband exchange, a small marquee by the main entrance. He meets his two volunteers and sets up a table and chairs for them, setting the boxes of different bands beside them and making sure they know what they’re doing. His phone chimes in his pocket as he is opening up the tent, and he forgets to check it in the rush of festival goers.  
Green Man is a quiet, family friendly event, so the gathered crowds aren’t an issue. It is the kind of festival that encourages fresh faced hipsters with beards like a badger has taken up residence on their faces, and middle class families with children blithely named after Indian death gods running around unsupervised, which is its own kind of problem.  
Bucky spends the morning not punching hipsters in their overly groomed faces and keeping stray kids from pulling the marquee down. At midday he sends the first volunteer off for a break and is too busy dealing with a man dressed as a court jester to notice his phone ringing. He sends the second volunteer off for their break when the first returns, and goes back to handing out maps and giving directions to the nearest baby change facilities.  
By early afternoon things are slowing down and Bucky is debating getting some coffee when his walkie talkie crackles at him. He unclips it from his belt and brings it up to his mouth.  
“Barnes here. That you, Luis?”  
“Yeah,” Luis sounds hesitant, which is so unlike him that it makes Bucky wary. “Got someone here looking for you”.  
Bucky frowns at the radio for a moment. Because Luis and silence don’t coexist, he starts up again, his voice distorted over the radio.  
“Big guy, blonde, blue eyed. Man-pretty,” Bucky closes his eyes and curls in on himself. Steve.  
Luis is still talking.  
“Is this the guy you’ve not been talking about? You want me to punch him?”  
Bucky presses a thumb between his eyebrows and counts to five.  
“He’s bigger than me but I’m pretty sure I can kick his ass,” Luis says.  
Bucky takes a breath and clears his throat.  
“Where are you?” he mutters.  
“Courtyard gate,” Luis replies.  
Bucky checks his phone for the time and sees the missed call and text messages, all from Steve. He quickly shoves the phone back in his pocket, the messages unopened.  
“I’m off in a couple of hours. Can he wait?” he tries to keep his voice steady.  
There is a moment of static before Luis returns.  
“Yeah, he can wait. I’ll keep an eye on him”.  
“Thanks, man,” Bucky says.  
He clips the walkie talkie back to his belt and goes back to work.  
The next hour creeps past, and Bucky frets quietly to himself while he hands out maps and points out the nearest ATM. By the end of the second hour he is practically vibrating out of his skin. When Kurt arrives to replace him, Bucky is distracted and jittery. He manages to run through the processing tickets and wristbands without making any mistakes before making his excuses and leaving.

Bucky jogs across the grass past the Mountain stage and over to the Courtyard, slowing down when he reaches the security gate. Luis is leaning on the railing, scanning the crowds. He straightens up when he sees Bucky walking over to the barrier, coming to a halt beside him and glancing around. Luis tilts his head towards a cluster of cedar trees.  
“Over there, he’s been hittin’ the cider,” Luis says softly.  
Bucky takes a closer look at the trees and there is Steve, sat at the base of the largest tree, peeling the label off a half empty bottle of Shaky Bridge. He looks tired and miserable.  
“How much has he had?” Bucky asks with a sigh.  
“Three or four,” Luis glances at him. “That your guy?”  
Bucky nods, resting his hands on his hips. He looks back at Luis.  
“Didn’t beat him up then?” he asks with a smile. Luis shakes his head.  
“Doin’ enough of that on his own, y’know?”  
Luis gives him a gentle shove.  
“Go get ‘im,” he says with a smile.  
Bucky pats him on the arm and walks over to the group of trees. He crouches down on the scrubby grass, balancing on the balls of his feet.  
“Hey, Stevie,” he says softly.  
Steve looks up and blinks owlishly at him for a moment before offering a small smile.  
“Hey, Buck,” he holds up his bottle of cider, Bucky shakes his head and he lowers the bottle again.  
“I don’t feel so good,” he mutters. Bucky straightens up and holds out a hand.  
“I’m not surprised,” he says, taking his hand and pulling Steve to his feet. “Let's get you some coffee”.  
Bucky drops the bottle of cider in a nearby bin and leads him through the courtyard to the row of food stalls, hyper aware that Steve has not let go of his hand yet. He tries not to dwell on the warm, damp fingers intertwined with his own and orders two cups of coffee, handing one over when they arrive. Steve accepts it silently and takes a sip, letting Bucky lead him along the grass out of the crush of people, their fingers still tangled together.  
“Did you get my messages,” Steve suddenly blurts out.  
“Yeah, but not had a chance to look at them,” he says quietly.  
They walk slowly along the grass, sipping their coffees.  
“I’ve got raggedy edges,” Steve mutters. He stumbles on the uneven ground. “I had these things to say, but the words were all wrong”.  
Bucky pauses and huffs out a laugh. “So use the wrong words then”.  
Steve hesitates, kicking at the dirt at his feet.  
“I got raggedy edges, and you got them too,” he says quietly. “And they fit. They fit and they’re still edges but it’s… Not so bad”.  
He frowns and swallows a mouthful of coffee. Bucky watches him.  
“That kind of makes sense,” he says softly.  
Steve shakes his head and shifts from foot to foot.  
“I didn’t know what it was when I had it. And then I didn’t have it and I missed it and…” Steve looks down at their joined fingers. “I want it back,” he says finally, keeping his eyes cast downwards.  
Bucky doesn’t respond. For a moment he struggles to breathe, his heart hammering in his chest. He feels over-full, like a glass of water filled to the brim and at the slightest jostle will spill over. He finishes his coffee, taking Steve’s empty cup from him and walking them both over to drop them in the trash. He buys a bottle of water from a stand, opening it and handing it over to Steve.  
“Here, drink this. You might start making sense,” he says kindly.  
Steve snorts at him, takes the offered bottle and drinks slowly. He lets out a sigh.  
“They don’t teach you this in school,” he says finally. “They teach you math and history, but they don’t tell you how to make the right decision, or how to fix it when you’ve made the wrong one. They don’t teach you how to say sorry, or how to say goodbye”. He pauses to drink some more water. “You don’t learn how to find it, or recognise it when you have found it. They don’t tell you how to take care of it or how to get it back if you lose it”.  
Steve pauses to rub the heel of his hand against his temple. Bucky tilts his head, catching Steve's eye.  
“Find what?” he asks with a soft smile.  
Steve sets down the half empty bottle of water, steps closer and presses a brief kiss against the corner of his mouth. Bucky doesn’t pull away, and Steve shakes his fingers loose from his grasp, reaching up to cradle Bucky’s face in his hands. Steve’s fingers are trembling slightly against the line of his jaw as he leans forward and presses their lips together, pulling back after a moment. Bucky follows him, tilting his head and crushing their mouths together. Steve makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, threading fingers through dark hair as Bucky wraps his arms around his waist.  
Bucky pulls back far too soon and Steve makes a quiet sound of dissent.  
“People will see,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together.  
“Don’t care,” Steve growls and Bucky chuckles at that.  
“Come on, Stevie,” he says gently, pulling away. “Let's get you sobered up”.  
Steve scowls at him while he laces their fingers together.  
“You’re kidding me,” he says incredulously. Bucky shakes his head.  
“I ain’t laying a hand on you until you’re sober,” Bucky says with a frankly evil grin.  
“Oh, come on, Bucky!”

Steve lets himself be led across the grass back to the row of food vans. Bucky joins the queue for a dinky little pie van and wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders.  
“C’mon, Steve. We’ll eat some carbs and then we can go back to,” he pauses. “What are you staying in this time?”  
“A yurt,” Steve mutters.  
Bucky hesitates for a moment, trying very hard not to laugh.  
“A fuckin’ yurt?” he says quietly.  
Steve kicks his ankle and he laughs, pulling him closer.  
“We’ll eat potatoes, then we’ll go have sweaty, greasy, hungover yurt sex. Okay?”  
Steve turns pink around the ears and buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky strokes his back as he hears a muffled ‘okay’ against his collarbone. Steve doesn’t withdraw, settling his hands on Bucky’s hips and resting his head on his shoulder while Bucky rubs a soothing trail up and down his spine.  
They reach the front of the queue, shuffling along without breaking contact, and Bucky orders them pie and mash. Steve reluctantly pulls away to let him pay and Bucky hands over his money and receives two brown cardboard boxes filled with individual servings of pie, a dollop of buttery mashed potatoes and a slick of onion gravy. He jabs a wooden fork into each box, passing one over to Steve and guiding him across the grass away from the crowds to the shade of an oak tree. They sit down on the bare earth, their backs to the wide tree trunk, their shoulders pressed together. 

Bucky digs his fork into his pie crust. Steve scoops up a forkful of mashed potato and swallows it. They sit for a few minutes, chewing quietly and pressing against each other.  
“Steve, your leg is vibrating,” Bucky says with a smirk.  
Steve sets down his box and fork, rummages in his pocket and pulls out his phone.  
“Notifications,” he explains, thumbing it on.  
Bucky shoves a chunk of pastry in his mouth. “Yeah?”  
“Social media,” Steve blushes. “I took your advice about promotion”. He holds up his phone. “Twitter, Instagram, that sort of thing”.  
He flips through his phone and lets out an odd little laugh. He turns it around, holding the screen out for Bucky to see. Someone has tweeted a photo of the two of them. Steve’s hands are twisted in Bucky’s hair, Bucky’s arms wrapped around his waist. The comment above the image joking that they’ve spotted Steve at Green Man. Bucky feel his throat close up and holds his breath. Steve must see something in his shuttered off expression, and he presses the reply arrow and types out a response. He presses send and holds the phone out again. Underneath the original message are the words ‘It is me’.  
Bucky chokes on air, covering his mouth and coughing while Steve pats his back. He drops his half eaten box of pie on the grass and wheezes before swallowing and clearing his throat.  
“Steve,” he rasps. Steve shakes his head.  
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” he grins at Bucky. “I’m really okay”.  
Bucky clears his throat and pokes at his mashed potato. Steve turns his phone over in his hands.  
“I’m gonna try again. See if I get the words right this time,” he says quietly.  
Bucky puts down his fork. “Okay”.  
“When did you know?” Steve asks softly. “I know you told me, or tried to, at Sziget. But when did you know for sure?’  
Bucky smiles at him. “You figured that out?”  
“ _Voliv tut_ , you said,” Steve murmurs. Bucky ducks his head and smiles.  
“Yeah. You know what it means?’ Steve nods. “You been learning the _chib_?”  
Steve shakes his head. “Trying to,” he says and Bucky’s heart feel like it will burst.  
“Glastonbury,” he says. “Lying on the grass in Williams Green”.  
Steve bits his lip and nods.  
“When you sang to me, at the Isle of Wight,” he grins suddenly, warms and bright. “I didn’t know what it was then, but that was it”.  
Steve looks over at him, his eyes bright.  
“I loved you first”.  
Bucky leans forward, cradling Steve’s chin in the palm of his warm hand and presses soft kisses along the line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Steve grins against his mouth and Bucky nips at his lips, worrying them between his teeth. He pulls back sharply and clears his throat.  
“Eat your damn pie, Stevie,” he mutters, his voice rough.  
Steve chuckles and drops his phone on the grass between them, where it vibrates gently. He picks up his fork and spears a piece of pastry.  
“You ain’t worried,” Bucky says quietly, picking up his box and scooping up a forkful of mash. It takes Steve a moment to realise that it’s not a question. He shakes his head.  
“After that? Record company can’t terminate my contract now, not without a fuss,” he pauses to chew on another piece of pastry. “If they did, it wouldn’t be the end of the world”.  
They finish their pies and Bucky collects up the boxes to take to the trash. He comes back a few minutes later with two cups of coffee to find Steve scrolling through his notifications.  
He sits down and sets down the paper cups between them.  
“Everything okay?” he asks quietly.  
“We’re trending,” Steve says, taking a sip of his coffee.  
“Uh?” Bucky offers. Steve leans over and shows him his phone. His comment has been retweeted over a thousand times.  
“People giving you any shit?” he asks quietly as Steve presses against his shoulder.  
“Some,” Steve shrugs. “Most want to know more about you”.  
Steve grins suddenly and leans back, holding up his phone and taking a picture of Bucky smiling at him against a backdrop of lush green oak leaves. Steve shuffles back to his side and Bucky wraps an arm around his shoulder as Steve curls up against him and types out a message, warmth unfurling in his chest that isn’t solely due to hot coffee when he sees the words ‘This is my Bucky’ on the screen. Steve presses send and drops the phone on the grass, shifting around and curling an arm around Bucky’s waist, resting his head on his shoulder and pressing his nose to the sensitive skin just behind Bucky’s ear.  
“You sure, Stevie?” Bucky murmurs against his forehead. Steve nods and presses a kiss to the lobe of his ear. Bucky shudders at the touch.  
“Really sure?” Bucky whispers. “Cause if you change your mind again I will set Luis on you”.  
Steve snorts a laugh against his ear.  
“Yeah, he’s a little guy but he can take you,” Bucky perseveres while Steve chuckles and pokes him in the ribs. He squirms away and gets to his feet, brushing the loose grass off his jeans before holding out his hand and helping Steve up.  
“C’mon then, let's go see this yurt”.  
Steve links their fingers together and Bucky collects their cups, dropping them in the trash as they cross the festival site, skirting around the Mountain stage and down to the camping grounds. They walk by the crowded main campsite to a smaller field dotted with Bedouin tents and canvas cubes decorated to look like dice, and a half dozen yurts. Steve picks his way across the field to the one tucked against a cluster of hawthorn bushes.  
The yurt is a large, wooden framed bell-shaped tent with a heavy cotton canvas cover, the whole structure five meters in diameter. Steve unfastens the opening and pulls the cloth aside, motioning for Bucky to go in. He ducks into the entrance and whistles softly as Steve slips in beside him, pulling the canvas closed. 

There is a heavy green groundsheet on the floor spread with Indian rugs though Bucky's attention is mostly on the bed that takes up half the space. The queen sized bed with pillows and rumpled duvets and blankets scattered across it.  
“You have a fucking bed in here,” he gasps.  
Steve kicks off his shoes and steps forward, turning on the small LED lanterns hanging from the canvas roof. The room has no other furnishings, just his rucksack on the floor by the bed and his guitar in its soft case on the floor. Bucky steps up to the bed and warily puts a hand on it, giving it a gentle pat.  
“Not an air mattress?” he says, still incredulous.  
Steve laughs and shakes his head as Bucky sits down on the edge of the bed and falls backwards, arms spread out.  
“Boots off,” he says firmly. Bucky snorts and holds up his feet, ignoring the way Steve rolls his eyes as he comes over to unlace his boots and slide them off, dropping them on the floor. Bucky squirms when he strips his socks off too, but wriggles his toes and shuffles his way up the bed with a happy little ‘unf’ noise. Steve climbs onto the bed, curling up beside him.  
“You okay there, Buck?” he asks with a smile.  
“I miss beds,” Bucky mumbles, his eyes closed. Steve reaches out and pushes a strand of dark hair out of his eyes.  
“You wanna take a nap?” he asks, carefully keeping any disappointment out of his voice.  
Bucky cracks his eye open and gives Steve a filthy grin.  
“No”.  
He flips over, pinning Steve under him, bracketing his hips with his knees and bracing his weight on his hands, their bodies barely touching. Steve reaches up, sliding warm, calloused hands under his t-shirt and lifting his head up to brush their mouths together.  
Bucky lets out a soft hum and presses down against him, sliding hands up to cradle the curve of his skull, tilting his head and sucking on Steve’s lower lip. He bites down, worrying the flesh between his teeth until Steve whines and he presses soothing kisses to his mouth, flicking his tongue between his lips until Steve growls, gripping onto his hips and rolling them over. He presses down against Bucky, sliding his tongue between his teeth and shivering when Bucky grips his scalp, pulling him closer and sucking his tongue into his mouth, their teeth clicking together. Teeth scrape against his tongue and Steve’s hands scrabble against his jeans.  
Bucky grips a handful of Steve’s shirt and pulls away.  
“Too many clothes,” he gasps, plucking at Steve’s shirt.  
He huffs out a laugh and pulls back enough for Bucky to yank the shirt over his head, dragging it off his arms and throwing it onto the floor. Bucky dips his head and sucks a mark on his collar bone, scraping his teeth at the ridge of bone against skin. Steve pushes his t-shirt up and Bucky pulls away long enough to strip it off and toss it aside before returning his attention to Steve’s breastbone, nibbling at the ridge of bone and making Steve shiver.  
Bucky kisses his way down his torso, pausing to flick his tongue over his nipple and delighting in the low sounds he makes. He pushes Steve onto his back and slowly kisses his way down his stomach, while he squirms and gasps beneath him, hands stroking across his shoulders.  
Bucky unfastens his khakis and slides his hands under the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down his hips and kissing a line down the crease of his thigh. Steve lifts his hips and Bucky slides the bunched up fabric down, kissing and nibbling at his thighs as he lets them drop to the floor. He crawls up between Steve's legs and presses his parted lips to his ballsack, mouthing at the tender flesh. Steve rubs his hands across the nape of Bucky’s neck as he licks up the underside of his length, gripping the base in one hand and pressing his tongue to the slit. Steve gasps, digging his fingers into Bucky’s shoulder blades as he mouths at the crown, flicking his tongue over the head and closing his lips over it, pressing down and swallowing. Steve gasps out his name as Bucky bows his head, twisting his wrist as he works his fist up the shaft.  
“C’mere,” he gasps, tugging at Bucky’s arms.  
Bucky pulls off with a soft sound and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Steve hauls him up and he goes willingly as Steve wraps his arms around his waist and kisses him, deep and sweet and slow. Bucky fumbles with the buttons on his jeans, easing down the zipper and letting Steve push them down with his shorts, kicking them off and moving further up the bed. He cradles Steve’s face in his hands and kisses him, swallowing his soft moans and sucking on his tongue.  
Steve reaches down between them and wraps his hand around Bucky’s length, making him whimper into Steve’s mouth. Bucky twists against him, bringing a hand down to grasp at Steve's fingers. He shifts, pressing their lengths together and wrapping their joined hands around their shafts, fingers interlocking. Steve moans into his mouth as he tightens his grip and pulls slowly, easing them into a steady rhythm. Steve traces his fingers across the line of his jaw as Bucky kisses him, biting at Steve’s lips and dipping his tongue between his teeth. He kisses back when those lips meet his and chases Steve's mouth, playful and teasing. Bucky bows his head, pressing his open mouth to Steve's and comes, spilling over their clasped hands. Steve rocks against him, panting into his mouth, and follows quickly after.  
Bucky presses light kisses to the corner of Steve's mouth, feeling the curve of his smile against his lips and his calloused fingers tangling in his dark hair.  
“You okay?” he asks softly, and Steve nods and flushes pink. To Bucky's delight the blush spreads across his chest and he traces its path with his fingertips.  
Steve reaches over the side of the bed and grabs his shirt, wiping his stomach off with it and throwing it back on the floor. Bucky curls around him, hooking a leg over his thigh as if to pin him in place. Steve twists his fingers into Bucky’s hair, massaging his scalp as he lets out a sigh and rests his head on his shoulder.  
“S’nice,” he mutters, eyes heavy lidded.  
Steve drags one of the blankets over them, kicking it in place with his feet.  
“You gonna be here when I wake up?” Bucky whispers against his throat.  
“Nowhere I’d rather be,” he murmurs back.  
Bucky closes his eyes and falls asleep to the gentle pressure of fingers curling in his hair and a warm, wide smile pressed against his brow.

Steve whines softly as Bucky shifts between his legs and bends over to suck a livid mark on his hip, his fingers trailing up his sides.  
“C’mon Stevie, you’re doing great,” he murmurs, soothing the bruise with laps of his tongue. “‘You see’”  
Steve runs his hands across Bucky’s shoulders and groans. Bucky had taken a reward based approach to teaching Steve Kalderash, pressing kisses to his lips and telling him for every correct answer, he would kiss his way south and every wrong answer would send his mouth north. There had been a deeply frustrating ten minutes of nuzzling his brow and gentle kisses against his damp blonde hair while Steve’s brain had refused to cooperate, and Christ alone knows how long to get so far south. And Bucky is not helping matters by biting and sucking wherever he lands.  
Steve digs his fingers in Bucky's thick dark hair and scratches lightly at scalp, making him arch and sigh, and struggles to think.  
“‘You see’,” Bucky repeats softly.  
Steve huffs out a laugh.  
“This isn’t the kind of conjugating I had in mind,” he says breathlessly.  
Bucky smirks and nips at his hip and he squirms.  
“Ow! _Dikhav… Tu dikhes_ ,” he glances down at Bucky who gives him a winning smile and moves lower, sucking at the crease of his inner thigh.  
“Good. ‘I want you’, can you say that for me?”  
He grazes his teeth along his inner thigh and Steve cups his hands around the curve of his skull.  
“ _Me… Me mangav tu,_ ” he gasps.  
Bucky wraps a hand around his length and Steve chokes out a moan as he flicks his tongue over the head.  
_“Baro_ ,” Bucky says softly and Steve flushes bright pink. He has a pretty good idea what that word means. Bucky mouths at the head, sucking and licking while Steve scrabbles at his shoulders and tries to keep his hips from twitching. Bucky pulls off and gives Steve a filthy grin, stroking his hand slowly up and down the length, the crown resting against his full lower lip. Steve rubs circles against his shoulders, his fingers rough and warm.  
_“Drágo,_ ” Bucky murmurs and swallows him down.  
Steve gasps his name, digging his fingers in his back as Bucky bobs his head, pumping his fist and sucking gently. Steve swears under his breath as Bucky moves faster, twisting his wrist as he slides his hand up the shaft, pressing his tongue against the underside as he moves along his length. Steve shudders and comes, whimpering as Bucky swallows around him. Bucky pulls off and slowly kisses his way up Steve’s stomach, feeling the muscles twitch and jump under his touch. He nuzzles the tender skin behind Steve’s ear and gasps when Steve wraps a warm, calloused hand around Bucky’s length, panting as he rocks into his fist. Steve rubs his thumb over the head and Bucky shivers, pressing teeth to his Adam's apple and sucking open mouthed kisses to his throat until Steve tips his head and presses their mouths together.  
Bucky slips his tongue into his mouth, teasing him with sucks and bites as he shifts his hips, bracing his weight on his palms and thrusting into Steve’s hand, fingers squeezing rhythmically around him. Steve kisses him, deep and fierce and he comes, spilling over his fingers. They twine their limbs together and gentle their kisses and Bucky murmurs _volime, volime_ between each press of his lips.

Bucky drags Steve out of their yurt with demands for breakfast, heading over to his own tent for clean clothes and only putting up a modicum of fuss when Steve suggests moving his things to the yurt. They pack up his tent and backpack and traipse across the grass to the better showering facilities in the yurt field. Bucky showers quickly in warm water, washing his hair and brushing his teeth. He shaves and puts on clean clothes and returns to the yurt. His stomach does an odd but pleasant little twist to see his bag propped up against Steve’s and flops on the bed and waits for Steve to get back from his own shower.  
Steve appears a few minutes later, damp haired and bright eyed and Bucky has to resist the urge to tackle him to the floor and muss him up again. Instead he links their fingers together and leads him out of the yurt and across the field to the festival, passing the Mountain stage and up the hill to the Thali cafe.  
Bucky keeps half an eye on Steve to see how he reacts to the owner and his hook hand, but he barely glances at it and makes no comment, and Bucky feels an odd little surge of pride. They bicker over who pays, Steve insisting that it was his turn since Bucky had bought them pie yesterday, and they take their coffees and tin trays full of spicy potatoes and eggs to one of the low wooden tables. They sit down side by side, shoulders pressing together. Bucky is stealing Steve’s fried mushroom when Luis drops down onto the bench opposite with his own tray.  
“Bucky! Man, where the fuck have you been?”  
He grins at Steve, gaze lingering on the fading pink marks poking out from under the collar of his shirt. Steve shifts uncomfortably, flushing pink and mumbling under his breath. Luis lets out a delighted yelp.  
“Space Cowboys!” Luis yells.  
Bucky ducks his head, hiding his face behind a curtain of dark hair. Luis holds his hand out, grinning broadly.  
“C’mon, don’t leave me hanging,” he teases, leaning forward.  
Bucky grudgingly holds out a hand and Luis slaps it.  
“Gettin’ it on!” he holds a hand out to Steve, who awkwardly pats it.  
Luis sits back down and digs into his eggs. Bucky scoops up his grilled tomato and drops it onto Steve’s tray, he murmurs a thank you and cuts it up with his fork.  
They eat their breakfast and listen to Luis chatter on about Calexico and Hot Chip. He finishes up and gives Bucky a slap on the back before heading off to start his shift.  
Steve watches him walk away, looking slightly shell shocked.  
“Is he always so..?”  
“Yeah,” Bucky says with a smile.  
“He threatened to get a stepladder so he could kick my ass,” Steve drinks a mouthful of coffee. “Pretty sure he meant it”.  
Bucky snorts and pushes away his tray.  
“When’re you playing?” he asks. Steve fiddles with his paper cup.  
“Six, on the Mountain stage,” he glances at Bucky who grins at him.  
“Saturday night on the main stage, Stevie,” he reaches over and wraps an arm around his waist. Steve leans into him and rests a hand on his thigh.  
“You nervous?” Steve shrugs. “You wanna go through your set list?”  
“Yeah,” Steve murmurs.  
“You wanna ..?” Bucky makes a distinctive gesture with his fist, poking his tongue in his cheek and Steve splutters and turns pink.  
“Maybe later,” he stutters.  
Bucky sniggers and gets to his feet, taking the trays and going to fetch more coffee. Steve pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts checking his notifications.  
Bucky returns with coffee, setting the cups down and sitting down next to him.  
“Anything?” he asks, taking a sip of coffee.  
Steve nods absently, and Bucky rests his chin on his shoulder, sliding an arm around his waist and peering at his phone.  
“You tweeted that picture you took last night?” he asks. Steve presses against him.  
“It was very tasteful. You couldn’t see anything”.  
Bucky snorts and Steve holds out his phone to take a picture of them both, the image capturing Bucky’s fond smile. Steve tweets it, tagging the Thali cafe and the festival before putting his phone back in his pocket. Bucky wasn’t above stealing it when he felt it was getting too much of his attention.

They take their coffees and find a quiet spot under a cluster of trees. Steve fishes his notebook out of his pocket and they go through his setlist. Steve has focussed on traditional music over original material for the festival, mostly shanties. They agree on _Blood Red Roses_ and _A Drop of Nelson’s Blood_ and bicker affectionately over _Lowlands Away_ and _Hanging Johnny_. Steve quietly suggests _The Atchin Tan_ and Bucky just as quietly agrees. The order of songs comes easily and Steve closes his book decisively. Bucky shuffles down to lie on the grass, his head resting on Steve’s thigh and his eyes drifting closed when Steve threads fingers through his dark hair, lightly scratching his scalp.  
They talk softly in low voices and Bucky doesn’t grumble when Steve gets out his phone and starts looking at twitter, nor does he complain when he hears the soft click of a picture being taken. He cracks an eye open when he hears Steve chuckle to himself.  
“All right there, Stevie?” he murmurs.  
Steve pushes the stray hairs out of his eyes.  
“Yeah, just…” he pauses and looks out across the field. “I thought it would be. I don’t know. Worse? Harder?” He smoothes Bucky's hair behind his ears. “I mean, there’s still assholes talking shit about me online,” Bucky scowls and Steve rubs a thumb across his brow. “But mostly people… don't care”.  
Bucky smirks. “Told ya,” he murmurs.  
Steve smiles and idly strokes the curve of his ear.  
“Yeah, you did”.  
“There’s always gonna be something, Stevie,” he says softly. “Whatever you do, someone will bitch about it. So fuck ‘em”. He smiles, soft and sweet. “Don’t change who you are for anybody”.  
Steve curls his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and bends down to kiss him. Bucky smiles against his mouth and jabs his fingers under his ribs until he yelps and squirms away, calling him every swear word he can think of.

Steve refuses any suggestion of lunch and they walk back to the yurt so he can fetch his guitar and change his shirt. They walk across the trampled grass, passing the Mountain stage and up the slope to a cluster of fir trees. Bucky stops to buy some bottles of water and egg rolls from one of the food stalls, pointedly opening the carton and setting it on the dirt between them as they sit in the shade of the trees. Steve huffs at him but eats half of the rolls without complaint.  
He unzips his guitar case and sets the instrument on his knee, working through the notes and fussing over the running times while Bucky leans against a tree trunk and listens quietly. When Steve has run through his set twice he pauses and glances over.  
“I was wondering,” he says slowly. Bucky makes a noncommittal humming noise. “Have you got any more shifts here?”  
Bucky looks over at him, eyes hooded as he shakes his head.  
“Start at Reading Wednesday. Otherwise I’m all clear”.  
Steve plucks at his guitar nervously.  
“I’m going back home tomorrow,” he keeps his eyes firmly down. “You wanna come with?”  
Bucky sits up and Steve starts speaking in a rush.  
“I just figured it’s been a long summer for you and I’ve got a washing machine and a bath you can use…”  
“Steve…”  
“And it’s not a big place but we wouldn’t be under each others feet…”  
“Stevie…”  
“And, y’know, actual food and a sofa and I’m not asking you to move in but if you wanted to stay a while..”  
Bucky leans over and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder and Steve snaps his mouth shut. Bucky presses his nose to the sensitive skin behind his ear.  
“Yeah,” he breathes.  
Steve lets out a breath and hooks an arm around Bucky’s shoulders.  
“Not too soon?”  
Bucky shrugs. “Life’s too short. _Av vésolo drágo,_ ” he murmurs.

Steve packs up his guitar and notebook and they walk down to the Mountain stage. Bucky hustles him backstage before going around to the security barrier around the front where he finds Scott working a shift. He tucks himself in the corner at the foot of the stage and has a brief chat with Scott while waiting for Steve to come out. They fall silent when he appears on stage, his guitar slung over his shoulder. The crowd claps and whistles while he pauses to adjust his mic stand and position his guitar.  
Bucky watches with barely contained pride while he greets the crowd. Then someone in the audience shouts ‘Where’s Bucky?’. He ducks his head, trying not to blush as Steve grins down at him, but doesn’t point him out. Damnit. He steps forward and raises his hand to the crowd and is hit by a wave of whooping and applause. Steve, up on stage, laughs and whistles at him. Bucky waves at the crowd and goes to hide behind Scott as best as he can.  
Steve launches into _Hanging Johnny_. The audience pick up the refrain quickly and join in the chorus. He finishes the song and gives a short explanation on call and return shanties, teaching the crowd their lines and getting them to sing back a few times before tearing into _Blood Red Roses_ , following with _Fathom the Bowl_. He has the crowd stamping their feet and shouting ‘Arr’ as he sings Deepwater songs and Halyard shanties and finishes with _the Atchin Tan_. He thanks the crowd and leaves, the clapping and cheering ringing around the field. Bucky pats Scott on the shoulder and heads around the back, and after a few moments Steve appears, bright eyed and thrumming with energy, his guitar zipped up in its case and slung over his shoulder. Bucky has no qualms about kissing him and telling him how well he did, and feels a little jolt of pure joy that he can. 

Bucky drags Steve up the hill to the food vans and insists on getting food before they even think of doing anything else. They join the queue for the Pieminister van, Steve wrapping an arm around Bucky’s hip and talking excitedly about his set. Bucky threads their fingers together and pulls his arm tightly around his waist and listens, a smile dancing around his eyes as he watches Steve enthusing.  
It comes as a surprise when a young woman approaches them, cheered on by her group of friends, and asks to have her picture taken with them. Bucky steps aside, only to be told in no uncertain terms that he had to be in the picture too. He chuckles at her but gladly poses for a picture before encouraging her friends over and getting the person behind them in the queue for pie to take a group photo. They run off giggling and talking amongst themselves. Bucky rolls his eyes at Steve and orders them pie, mash and peas, handing over his money and passing the cartons over to Steve while he takes his change. They walk over to the bar and order a couple of bottles of cider from the girl working there and head up to the woods to find a secluded spot near the Far Out stage. They sit on the grass under the cedar trees and eat their food, listening to the music coming from the nearby stage. They drink their ciders and walk around the stages, watching the bands perform and talking softly, until Steve clasps Bucky’s hand in his and leads him away from the music and the crowds, down the hill and across the grass to their yurt. He pushes him down onto the bed and peels away his clothes, one by one, kissing every inch of skin revealed.

Bucky wakes up late, warm and sticky under the weight of blankets and musician. He wriggles his way free, pulling the bedding back over Steve and tucking them around him before quietly getting dressed. He pulls on his boots and shoves his phone and wallet in his pockets, grabs his toiletries and slips out of the yurt. It rained in the night and he walks across the damp grass, the air humid and sweet with the warming sun. He heads over to the showers to quickly rinse off, gets dressed, brushes his teeth and shaves. He laces up his boots and then pads across the field to the festival site. He picks out one of the smaller vans and orders coffee and bagels.  
He is on his way back to the yurt when he gets stopped by a boy and girl in their late teens and asked to take a picture with him. He apologises and explains that Steve is back at the tent asleep, which just makes them blush and giggle. He sets his coffees on the grass and poses for a photo with them anyway, asking them how they like the festival. They stutter in response and he does his best to be reassuring before waving his coffee in the vague direction of the camping grounds and saying goodbye.  
He traipses across the drying grass and mud, ducking through the doorway and kicking off his boots. He sets the coffee and breakfast on the floor and peels away the blankets, gently pinching the unresponsive lump under the covers and murmuring softly. Steve grumbles as Bucky lightly tickles his sides, finally rolling away and sitting up. Bucky hands him his coffee and sits on the bed opposite, dropping the paper bag of bagels between them and tearing it open. He picks one up and takes a bite, watching Steve slowly wake up with every sip of coffee. He nudges the bag over and Steve takes a bagel, and they eat breakfast in comfortable silence.  
After several notification beeps, Steve picks up his phone and thumbs it open. He snorts and holds it up to Bucky, showing the picture he had taken with the two kids while getting breakfast.  
“Yeah, they kinda ambushed me,” he says, swallowing the last of his coffee.  
“Apparently you’re ‘even cuter in the flesh’,” Steve says with a smile.  
Bucky grins and pops the last chunk of bagel in his mouth.  
“True,” he says with his mouth full. “Still don’t get why they wanted a picture”.  
Steve’s mouth drops open.  
“Buck, you’ve got your own damn fan club on twitter”.  
Bucky swallows and frowns. “Whut?”  
Steve shuffles closer, flicking through his phone and holding it out to him. Bucky snorts as he sees all the likes and retweets of the pictures Steve has posted, taking the phone from him and scrolling through the messages. He feels a warmth spreading under his ribcage and drops the phone, tackling Steve to the bed and kissing him, deep and slow and merciless.

They pack their bags and walk down to the security office, where Bucky hands over his ID and walkie talkie to Natasha, who smirks at him but says nothing. She hands over his wages and tells him to keep hydrated, much to Steve’s embarrassment.  
They walk across the field to the car park and pile into Steve’s not-ridiculous old hatchback. Bucky slouches in the passenger seat and dozes his way through most of the drive across Wales, waking up when they cross the Severn bridge. He talks softly, still half asleep, of the press gang songs of the North East where men were forced into the Navy during the French wars. He sings snatches of songs, his voice low and rough, Steve’s hand a warm weight resting on his thigh.

_“Here’s the tender coming, pressing all the men,_  
_Oh dear hinny, what’ll we do then?_  
_Here’s the tender coming, off at Shields Bar_  
_Here’s the tender coming full of men-o’-war”_


	6. Reading Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's the code for naked guy who keeps licking people? I mean, no one's licking back. so it's not 'Space Cowboy'. They're all pretty replused".  
> Bucky pulls on his boots and laces them up.  
> "I'm repulsed. Very repulsed," Scott mutters. "He licked me, Barnes".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey it's chapter 6 folks!  
> You think I'm exaggering about Reading festival?  
> I am not exaggerating. I have seen PortalooHenge. I have smelled PortalooHenge.
> 
> There are many versions of Shenandoah out there, but it's the one from Son of Rogues Gallery performed by Tom Waits and Keith Richards that you want.
> 
> "The Long and the Short and the Tall' first appeared in the First World War and bounced around the Royal Air Force and Royal Marines, the verses adapted for the services singing it. Gracie Fields sang a more radio friendly version 'Bless 'em All'
> 
> Friendly Naked Guy didn't lick me while I was applying his makeshift skirt, but made me reevaluate my career.

On Wednesday morning, Bucky catches the 10:15 train from London, Paddington to Reading. He’d had every intention of getting an earlier train but Steve, soft edged from sleep and curled up under the covers had been impossible to resist. The journey is short, less than half an hour, and he is hefting his backpack onto his shoulders at Reading station before he knows it.  
His bag is packed with his tent, clean clothes, toiletries and sleeping bag. Plus a bag of apples and a sandwich that Steve insisted on making. The devil himself and all his flaming pitchforks will not make Bucky admit just how that makes him feel. A copy of Moby Dick tucked into the side pocket that Steve insisted he try reading. Bucky is not entirely convinced, and might have commented on it not being the kind of dick he was interested in, much to Steve’s amusement.  
He leaves the station and heads down the road to Richfield avenue. It’s a fairly short walk from the train station to the festival site, maybe fifteen minutes along the A road before he reaches the main entrance.  
Reading festival is held on a farm in central Reading. The oldest and most popular music festival still going, every August bank holiday ninety thousand people show up to get drunk, hurl abuse and bodily fluids at the performers and set fire to things.  
It’s also a rarity in that it’s twinned with another festival in Leeds, the festivals occurring simultaneously with the same acts performing.  
It’s wildly popular, but absolute bedlam for the staff and crew. Steve has been low key panicking over it. Bucky is scheduled to work at Reading the whole festival, which means Steve will be performing his gig at Leeds on Friday without Bucky there to back him up, before heading over to Reading to play on Sunday.  
He’s played gigs without Bucky there before, and he’s more than capable of handling a crowd, but he’s still been wearing a hole in the carpet pacing back and forth over the last few days fretting over his set list. Given the choice, Bucky would rather be there with him at Reading than at Leeds. Leeds is the younger festival, with attendance around seventy thousand, hosting a more relaxed crowd who prefer indie and rock music to screaming abuse at the stage. At Reading you’re more likely to get glassed, or have all the portaloos dragged into an impressively horrific replica of Stonehenge. And then burnt down. It’s frankly impressive how they can get plastic and human waste to burn so well.

Bucky walks through the main entrance and turns left, heading over to the security portacabin. Natasha is there, her schedules and rotas spread across the table in front of her, a frown of concentration on her face. Bucky sets his bag on the floor and taps on the doorframe. She glances up and flashes him a grin. He smiles back and steps through the doorway, coming over to the table to give her a one armed hug.  
“Hey, Barnes. Getting laid suits you,” she snarks.  
“Fuck off,” he mutters with a blush. She pokes him in the ribs.  
“How’s the asshole?”  
“Steve’s fine, freaking out about his gig,” he says, sitting down on a spare chair.  
“Not what I meant,” she says with a filthy grin.  
“Seriously, fuck off,” he splutters. She sniggers at him. Devil woman.  
He folds his arms across his chest and scowls at her, which only makes her laugh harder. Devil. Woman.  
She hands over an ID badge and walkie talkie and he clips both to his belt.  
“You know where you’re camping?” she asks.  
Bucky checks his notebook and frowns.  
“Hotbox. Seriously? Where do they come up with these stupid fuckin’ names?”  
She shrugs and hands over his schedule.  
“In with the volunteers”.  
“Yeah, someone’s gotta keep an eye on ‘em,” he says ruefully.  
He checks his sheet, gate, stage duties and wristband exchange. Plus a clear Sunday evening when Steve is scheduled to perform. He leans forward and plants a kiss on Natasha’s cheek.  
“Thanks, Nat,” he says softly.  
She waves him away and starts shuffling her papers.  
“Get out of here, Barnes,” she mutters.  
He gets to his feet, grabbing his bag and heading over to the stupidly named campsite. It’s not too far from Guest camping, where Steve and whatever ridiculous campervan he’s hired for the event will be parked. Bucky doesn’t trust the guy as far as accommodation is concerned, and he wouldn’t put it past him to end up getting one of the gaudily painted sheds that passed for luxury camping while he was at the festival.  
He sets up his tent, throws his backpack and sleeping bag into it and fishes his book out to read before his shift starts.  
Call me Ishmael. What the fuck kind of name is Ishmael?

Bucky heads down to the main gate for the start of his shift, where he meets Rollins. He hasn’t seen the guy for a while, and isn’t surprised to see him there. He’s the kind of muscle that fits in at the rougher festivals, even if they tend to make the situation worse rather than better. Bucky grins at him, mostly just to piss him off, and he skulks down the road without a word.  
It’s a busy afternoon, with day labourers and stall holders arriving to set up. Bucky is kept busy on the gate, giving directions and checking passes. At the end of his shift Kurt shows up, his quiff looking limp and bedraggled. They chat for a while, Bucky giving him the low down on the festival, the areas to steer clear of and how to handle any issues that crop up. He says goodnight and head backs to his tent.  
After a brief emotional tussle, he eats his sandwich, though he would rather encase it in perspex and quietly treasure it. It would probably go mouldy before he found any perspex, or figured out how to do any encasing, so it’s probably for the best.  
He calls Steve to say goodnight, thank him for the sandwich and whisper vulgar and inappropriate things that make his breath catch in his throat.  
Afterwards, when goodnights have been said, and words of affection murmured, he curls up in his sleeping bag and falls asleep.

Bucky wakes up stiff and sore and climbs out of his tent. Sleeping in a bed has made him soft. He stretches and rubs the back of his neck before pulling on his boots, grabbing his toiletries and heading down to the cubicles to piss and brush his teeth. He goes back to his tent and shoves his phone and wallet in his pockets, clips his walkie talkie to his belt and walks over to the festival site.  
A couple of enterprising food vans have already set up, and he buys a coffee and a muffin from one, sitting on the grass and picking the blueberries out of his muffin while he watches the day labourers working on the stages. He hears a shout and looks up to see Luis and Scott walking over. Scott heads over to the van for coffee while Luis tackles Bucky to the grass with a yelp. Bucky chuckles and pats him on the back while Luis throws questions at him faster than he can answer.  
Scott comes back with coffee and bagels before Bucky is suffocated.  
“Luis, let the man breathe,” he says, exasperated.  
“But look at his face,” Luis grabs Bucky's face in his hand and crushes his cheeks. “That's the face of a man who’s getting some,” he exclaims.  
Bucky waits for Luis to notice coffee and let go of him, and sits up when he does. His own cup of coffee survived the attack at least, so he takes a drink while Luis stuffs a bagel in his mouth.  
“You been here long?” he asks Scott while Luis is chewing.  
“Just got in. You?”  
“Yesterday. Got your schedule?” Bucky finishes his coffee.  
“Yeah, stages and gates,” Scott picks raisins out of his bagel looking unconvinced.  
“Could be worse. If anyone asks you to cover the camping areas, run the fuck away,” Bucky says cheerfully.  
“That bad?” Scott’s voice gets surprisingly high pitched when he’s nervous.  
Bucky grins at him. “Last year the kids came up with this new game, wait ‘till someone’s in a portaloo and then tip it over,” Scott pales while Luis laughs. “Door flat on the ground so you had to lever off the roof to get them out was popular at first, then they got creative”.  
“Cocktail shaker?” Luis says, his expression somewhere between doubt and awe.  
“Yup,” Bucky nods. “Rolling them down the hill”.  
“Fuck,” Scott mutters.  
“Surfboards if it rains,” Bucky adds. “And Saturday night someone will start setting fire to them”.  
Bucky cackles at their twin expressions of horror. For reasons beyond him, possibly good old fashioned insanity, the festival organisers allow fires. You can’t boil water on a perfectly safe camping stove, but you can steal a supermarket basket and turn it into a makeshift barbecue. And when drunk teenagers start burning stuff without getting water cannons pointed at them, well the idea kind of sticks.  
“You wouldn’t think plastic would burn,” Scott says quietly.  
“Helluva stink when it does,” Bucky adds sagely.  
They sit in silence for a while, watching the lighting rigs being set up, quietly grateful that, whatever they’re doing, they’re on the ground while doing it.  
“So... things good with your guy?” asks Luis, who has has yet to meet a moment of peace without ruining it. Bucky ducks his head and smiles.  
“Yeah. Really good,” he says softly.  
Luis gives him a friendly shove. “Good for you, man”.  
“Fuck off,” Bucky says without malice, making Luis cackle.  
They don’t have any shifts until after midday, so they spend the remainder of the morning sat on the grass, drinking coffee and talking.  
Bucky finally gets up for his shift and says his farewells.

He heads down to the Main gate and relieves the guard on duty there. It starts raining, a steady drizzle. Not enough not make him seek shelter, but enough to make him pull his hood up and hunch in on himself.  
He’s busy for most of the shift, checking passes and giving directions, but the time seems to drag on. He feels unsettled, a sensation vaguely like homesickness. It doesn’t dissipate as the day wears on, so he pulls his phone out of his pocket, thumbs it open and sends a message.

**Barnes:** _You know homesickness?_

**Stevie:** _Hey, Buck. Yeah?_

**Barnes:** _Can you get it for people or is it just places_

There is a long pause before he gets a response. He doesn’t spend the whole time checking his phone. 

**Stevie:** _I miss you too_

He shoves the phone back in his pocket, annoyed with himself. It’s been a single fucking day and he already misses the dumb punk. He kicks at the grass and watches the traffic moving past. At least the dumb punk misses him too.  
He thinks of Steve in his poky little flat in London, which would be less poky if there wasn’t an old upright piano, recently purchased, pushed against the far wall of the living room. A weathered Diener in plain walnut, in pretty good condition. Bucky loved the damn thing and had spent hours running his fingers over the worn, yellowing keys.  
He thinks of his fingers on the keys, of hands resting on his shoulders and a mouth pressed to the sensitive skin behind his ear. The dull thunk of the stool being kicked over. He thinks of the walnut panelling digging into his back, fingers tangled in his dark hair, the discordant sound of clumsy bodies pressing against the keys and the warm wet slide of tongue in his mouth.  
He hums to himself.

_Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you_  
_Away, you rolling river_  
_Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you,_  
_Away, I’m bound away_  
_‘Cross the wide Missouri._

The rain lets up and Scott shows up at the end of his shift to relieve him. They lean against the gate and talk quietly for a while before Bucky walks back down to the festival site. He wanders around the food stalls before buying a portion of chips. It’s not Green Man, and the food varieties lean towards fried starches that will soak up the alcohol rather than rye sourdough or named meat products. He eats his chips while walking around, then heads back to his tent to read for a while.  
Steve calls him before going to bed, so he complains about how racist the book is, and how the narrator is probably gay for whales from the way he talks about them. Steve’s laughter makes him feel less cold and damp, though he keeps that information to himself. Bucky listens to Steve talk about his set list for the following day, and tells him to go get some sleep.  
He burrows into his sleeping bag and sleeps fitfully, and waits another day.

Bucky wakes up early to the sound of rain. He pulls on his boots, grabs his toiletries and heads to the cubicles to brush his teeth. He goes back to his tent and puts on a clean t-shirt. He puts on a sweater and his long suffering jacket, slips his phone and wallet into his pockets and clips his walkie talkie to his belt. He zips up his tent and stomps over to the Crew Camping marquee to drink as much complimentary coffee as he can stomach before heading down to the wristband exchange to meet his volunteers for the day. They don’t seem to be drunk or high or certifiable so he runs through the process of checking tickets and issuing wristbands with them. He sits them down at a row of tables, makes sure everyone has a rough idea what they’re doing and opens up the marquee to the crowds gathered outside.  
The morning passes in a stressful blur as Bucky hares around dealing with forgeries, drunks, idiots and the extremely high. He hands out maps, answers dumb questions and repeats the same damn things over and over. He recites the fire safety warnings with the grim resignation of someone who has seen a flaming portaloo homage to Stonehenge.  
At midday he sends the volunteers off to lunch one by one. When one of them doesn’t come back he sits down at the table and starts processing tickets himself. Several girls in footwear inappropriate for muddy fields and camping attempt to flirt with him. A woman wearing a t-shirt with a cartoon of a smiling squid attacking a ship seems to recognise him, and gets him to sign her ticket stub. He draws a waving squid on her ticket, and gets one of the volunteers to take a picture of them together, much to her delight.  
When it becomes apparent that the volunteer is not coming back, he radios Natasha. She swears for a while, but isn’t surprised. The name gets added to her list of fuck-ups who will never work for her again and Bucky reassures her that he can manage the rest of the shift without further help.  
The volunteers finish their shifts and are replaced by a new group. He switches them over one at a time, making sure each new volunteer is settled in place and knows what they’re doing before moving to the next one. At the end of his shift he gets replaced by a guard he doesn’t recognise, but introduces himself and makes sure the guy knows what he’s doing before slipping out of the marquee and heading down to the festival.

He buys a portion of macaroni cheese and eats on the move. The thoroughfares are crowded with people traipsing to and from the different stages, some already impressively drunk considering it’s only Friday afternoon. He wanders around, waiting for Steve’s set to end in Leeds.  
He’s checking out the Festival Republic stage when his phone starts ringing. He ducks outside, making his way over to a quiet corner to answer it.  
“Hey Stevie,” he says as he walks down O’Malley alley to the Guest camping area. “How did it go?”  
“Hey, Buck. Really good. Coast say they’ll lend me their keyboard on Sunday”.  
Bucky stumbles on the rough grass. Damn it.  
Steve had been understandably freaking out about playing Reading. So Bucky, being an idiot who couldn’t keep his fool mouth shut, had offered to accompany him if Steve could fanangle a piano or keyboard for him to play.  
Fuck.  
He groans and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. Fuck. What was he supposed to do, his guy had been panicking and the words had been out of his mouth before he could think.  
“You there, Bucky?” Steve sounds unsettled. Bucky hates hearing that in his voice.  
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says with a sigh.  
“You don’t have to come on stage with me, Buck. I’ll be okay”.  
Aww Fuck. Bucky shakes his head.  
“Darlin’ I’m fine,” he says gently. “Someone’s gotta keep your punk ass in line”.  
Steve snorts down the phone. “ _Voliv tut_ , jerk,” he says softly.  
Damn it, how can Bucky even try to argue when he comes out with stuff like that?  
“ _Voliv tut_ , you little shit”.  
He hangs up, Steve’s laughter echoing in his ears.

Bucky walks around the festival until he spots Luis working on the NME stage and goes over to keep him company. They watch the bands playing until Rollins shows up to take over, and Bucky pulls Luis away quickly before either of them can say anything dumb, hustling him off to the bar in the main arena.  
Bucky buys them both a beer and they prop themselves up against one of the viewing platforms.  
“Wasn't planning on sticking around for Limp Bizkit, but what’s with the manhandling?” Luis asks between sips of beer.  
“Nothin’, just… best staying over here with Mumford and Sons,” Bucky replies.  
Luis stares at him, and Bucky is starting to recognise that look.  
“C’mon, man. Spill it!” he wheedles.  
“Bottling,” he says. “A great Reading Festival tradition going back to the seventies,” he wonders why no one warns people about this shit.  
“It’s when the crowd throws stuff at the stage,” he adds, swallowing a mouthful of beer.  
“What, like Tom Jones?” Luis frowns. Bucky snorts, if the people of Reading started throwing their underwear on stage it would count as biological warfare.  
“Nah, bottles. Water, piss if they’ve prepared in advance. Rocks, mud, food,” Bucky sniggers to himself, “50 Cent got a fuckin’ paddling pool thrown at him. didn’t last twenty minutes before he stormed off stage”.  
“You’re shittin’ me,” Luis gasps.  
“The guy from Panic at the Disco got knocked unconscious,” Bucky grins. “Can’t always tell who they’ll go for, but the rock and metal acts tend to get the worst of it,” he points to the Main stage. “I figure we’re safe with Mumford and Sons”.  
Luis huddles back against the platform.  
“These people are fucked up, man”.  
Luis goes back to the bar to fetch beer. Bucky’s phone chimes at him and he pulls it out of his pocket and thumbs it open.

**Stevie:** _Where are you?_

He frowns at the message, but taps out a reply.

 **Barnes:** _You get home ok?_

**Barnes:** _Are bastille meant to be so fucking dull?_

He puts his phone back in his pocket when Luis returns with beer.  
“I can’t believe half the bands I wanted to see aren’t even here, man,” he grumbles. Or at least the closest Luis gets to grumbling. Bucky gives him a sympathetic nudge with his shoulder.  
“Yeah, you’ll get bands dropping out everywhere, but it’s pretty bad here,” he agrees. “They get ticket sales from the line up and stick a little ‘Artist subject to change ‘ disclaimer on there”.  
“That stinks,” Luis mutters and grumbles about the Prodigy for a few minutes while Bucky nods sympathetically until he hears a familiar soft voice behind him.  
“There you are”.  
He snaps his head round to see Steve, tired but smiling and the man looks fucking _edible_. Bucky’s feet move without warning the rest of him, and he throws his arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly. Steve clings back just as hard, nearly knocking him off his feet.  
“Stevie, what the fuck are you doin’ here?” he mumbles into his shoulder. “Wasn’t expecting you ‘till tomorrow”.  
Bucky ignores Luis’ wolf whistling in favour of burying his face in Steve’s neck. He smells sour and musty and it’s the best thing in the whole damn world.  
“Figured I’d come straight here,” Steve says softly. There are a lot of things he doesn’t say, but his fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair and mouth pressed to his scalp express them better than words would.  
“You eat?” Bucky asks, his words muffled against skin.  
“Nah, I’m fine”.  
Bucky pulls back enough to glare at Steve, who gives him a sheepish smile. Bucky extricates himself and hands over his half drunk bottle of beer.  
“Fuck’s sake, Stevie,” he glances over at Luis. “You hungry?”  
“I could go for a burrito,” Luis says with a grin.  
Bucky tells Steve to stay put and heads over to the food vans where he buys three burritos and cervezas. He walks back over to the viewing platform, where Luis and Steve are deep in conversation over one of the interchangeable indie rock bands that Bucky can’t keep up with the names of. He hands over the wraps and beers, opens his cerveza and swallows a mouthful, catching maybe half of what Luis is saying while Steve nods and chews on his burrito.  
When they’ve finished eating and the bottles contains only dregs Luis yawns overly loudly and announces that he’s going to go get some sleep. The exaggerated wink that accompanies his statement sets Steve coughing. Bucky rubs his back while Luis says goodnight and offers some helpful suggestions which makes Steve cough harder.  
“You okay?” Bucky asks gently.  
Steve nods and straightens up, reaching out and tangling their fingers together. He leads them out of the arena and along Cow lane to the Guest Campervan site. 

Bucky lets out a chuckle as Steve leads him over to a VW T25 Autohomes Kamper, the boxy exterior painted a sunny shade of yellow. Steve unlocks the door and climbs in, switching on the lights and dropping his keys on the narrow counter.  
The van interior is mostly taken up by the folded out bed and jumble of blankets. There are narrow windows along the sides covered by little curtains and a strip of cabinets along one side of the van that are blocked by the bed.  
Steve toes off his shoes and sits on the edge of the bed. Bucky unclips his walkie talkie and sets it on the counter, sitting down to unlace his boots and kick them off. He lies back on the bed and lets out a heavy sigh, lifting his arm so Steve can curl around him and brushing his fingers through short blond hair.  
He lets out a soft exhale as Steve slides a warm hand under his t-shirt, pushing up the fabric and tugging it over his head, bundling it up and tossing it to one side. Steve peppers soft kisses to his chest, pausing to flick a tongue over his nipple. Bucky gasps and shifts under his touch, tugging at his hair as Steve kisses his way down his sternum, pausing to mouth at his stomach as he settles between parted knees.  
Steve strokes Bucky’s thighs and presses open mouthed kisses to the hard length trapped under the coarse fabric. He sucks at the denim, dampening it as he runs his mouth along the shaft, sucking at the head and Bucky pants and digs his fingers into his scalp. Steve sucks and Bucky lets out a soft groan, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him.  
“C’mere,” he rumbles, and Steve climbs up the bed.  
Bucky cradles Steve's face in his hands and tilts his head up, pressing their mouths together. Steve curls his fingers around Bucky’s shoulders, kisses deep and slow until Bucky sucks on his tongue, grazing it with his teeth and tugging lightly.  
Steve pulls away long enough to strip off his shirt, and Bucky sits up to press his teeth to the exposed skin of his sternum, nibbling and sucking along the column of his throat to reach his mouth again, pulling him back down to the bed. Steve fumbles with the fastenings of Bucky’s jeans while Bucky kisses him, soft and sweet. Steve pushes the waistband of his shorts down Bucky’s hips, wrapping his fingers around his length and pulling firmly, swallowing the whimpers and curses gasped against his mouth. Bucky curls his hands around the line of Steve’s jaw and presses their tongues together, hot and slick and sweet, nipping at his lips and shuddering when he comes.  
Bucky lightly scratches his fingernails against Steve’s scalp, pressing teeth to his throat and sucking while Steve murmurs his name. He rolls them over, pushing Steve onto his back, biting and kissing his way down to his stomach and unbuttoning his khakis, Steve lifts his hips as Bucky drags the cloth down his legs and drops them on the floor, climbing down from the bed and positioning himself between his knees.  
Bucky bends his head and licks up the shaft, taking the head into his mouth and sucking, pressing his tongue against the underside while Steve gasps his name. He grips the base in his hand, his other curling against Steve’s stomach as he bobs his head, sucking and swallowing around his length. Bucky moves, squeezing his fingers and twisting as he pumps his wrist and Steve grasps at the mattress, grabbing handfuls of bedding and swearing under his breath. Steve presses his hand to the nape of Bucky’s neck and comes, whimpering as Bucky swallows around him and pulls off.  
Bucky sits back, grabbing a discarded t-shirt off the floor and wiping himself off before climbing back onto the bed and curling up against Steve, who wraps arms around him and kisses him. Bucky trails his thumb along the lines of Steve’s jaw, nuzzling at his lower lip and whispering sweet words into his mouth. Múrre drágo he murmurs between presses of lips, Voliv is whispered softly in return.

Bucky wakes up early to the insistent beeping of his alarm. He shifts under the blankets, Steve wrapped around him in his sleep, head pillowed on his stomach. He strokes his hands over Steve's broad back, pressing his thumbs to the knotted muscles between his shoulder blades. Steve lets out a soft rumble and winds his arms around Bucky’s waist.  
“Stevie,” he murmurs, “I gotta work”.  
The rumble becomes a grumble and Bucky moves his fingers in slow circles working his way up to the sides of his neck, then pressing the heel of his hands down the shoulder blades. Steve lets out a sigh. Bucky slaps him lightly on the back.  
“C’mon, let me up,” he says gently.  
Steve shifts over him and starts trailing slow, lazy kisses across his stomach. Bucky brushes fingers through his damp fair hair.  
“Stevie,” he says softly.  
Steve huffs against his hip, pressing warm hands to his ribs.  
“You wanna be my tour manager?” he murmurs against Bucky’s ribs. Bucky snorts and shakes his head.  
“”Don’t know the first thing about touring,” he says, idly stroking his fingers down Steve’s arms.  
“Head of security?”  
“Already asked Nat,” he murmurs. “She’ll take care of you”.  
Steve nuzzles against his ribs, pressing kisses to his breastbone.  
“What’s going on, Stevie?” Bucky asks softly.  
Steve is silent for a moment, smoothing his palms over warm skin.  
“I don’t like it when you’re not there,” he says eventually.  
Bucky’s heart kicks in his chest and for a second he struggles to breathe.  
“Can’t live in each other's pockets,” he murmurs.  
“Yes we can,” Steve retorts. He pauses before speaking again. “You’ve been talking about cutting back on festival work”.  
“I ain’t working for you, Steve,” he says softly. “Can’t screw you if you’re my boss”.  
Steve grumbles and presses closer, but doesn’t argue.  
“You’ll still come with me next year, right?” he asks quietly.  
“Yeah, ‘course I will,” Bucky ‘s voice catches in his throat.  
“An’ the year after that?” Steve pushes.  
“Yeah,” Bucky ducks his head down to kiss the top of Steve’s head.  
“An' the year after?” Steve tips his head back, his kisses clumsy and soft.  
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and then says little more.

Bucky arrives half an hour late at the NME stage, hair still dripping from a hasty shower, to replace Kurt at the end of his shift. His apologies get waved away before he can finish making them. Kurt has been doing the night shift for most of the festival, and after three days of drinking Red Bull and eating pro-plus like it was candy, he has reached a zen like state of calm which will probably be followed by a crash and burn before the day is out, or his heart will explode. Bucky watches him wobble his way across the arena and hopes for the best.  
The morning is quiet, most people passed out in their tents or someone else's. The funfair set up across the field alongside the Comedy stage is silent and still. A few festival goers are wandering around the arena looking for food and browsing the merchandise stalls. Bucky leans against the security barrier and tries to stay awake. He’d think it was ridiculous having security guarding a stage four hours before anyone was due to play on it, but someone would probably set the damn thing aflame is there wasn’t a semi-conscious guard with a walkie talkie and stubble rash propping up the fence.  
Steve shows up after a couple of hours with coffee and a sandwich for him. He has showered and shaved, and Bucky’s fingers itch with the desire to rumple him up a bit.  
They drink their coffees and talk about how his gig the previous day had gone, how to rework the set list for the Reading crowd and the tour he needs to figure out for the end of the year. For all his claims to know nothing about tour management, Bucky is able to come up with a list of venues; a pub in Birmingham, a bar in Oxford, a Social Club in Leeds, a former cinema turned venue in Manchester. Steve writes them all down in his notebook. They toss around ideas, spontaneous gigs promoted on social media, busking at famous landmarks and getting people singing sea shanties at the coast, until the first act of the day appears on stage.  
Steve hangs around for the first few gigs, bringing cups of coffee and leaning against the barrier, until Bucky sends him off to check out the rest of the festival. Steve leans over the barrier to kiss him goodbye, and disappears off into the crowd.  
The rest of his shift passes without much incident, the crowd too tired or hungover to do much damage yet, though a few hours and industrial quantities of snakebite will soon fix that.  
He gets relieved at the end of his shift by one of the wall-eyed lumps of meat that event organisers seemed to think were ideal candidates for security work, lacking tact, diplomacy or possibly coherent speech.  
He nods at the new guard, who grunts at him, and heads back out to the main arena.

Steve is waiting for him backstage, clearly itching to start working on his set. Bucky gives a mock sigh and slips an arm around his waist.  
“Buy me dinner first, Stevie. I ain’t that easy”.  
Steve chuckles and puts his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. They walk across the trampled dirt to the food stalls. Bucky steers him away from the noodle stall with a shake of his head and directs them to a stand covered by a green and white striped awning where they buy two portions of vegetable curry. They sit at a bench under the canopy, pressed together closer than strictly necessary. The curry is fragrant rather than overpowering and has chunks of recognisable vegetables in it.  
Steve pulls his notebook out of his pocket and they work through the set list for the following day. Bucky does his best to tamp down his nerves about playing in front of a crowd, and Steve doesn’t argue with his suggestions, which is unsettling rather than comforting because Steve argues about everything. Bucky frowns and hunches forward, resting his elbows on the table. Steve rubs a soothing hand along his thigh and makes a questioning noise.  
“We need somethin’ else,” Bucky mutters. “Can’t figure out what”.  
Steve looks down at his notes. They have short haul and halyard shanties, cutting out most of the slower fo’c’sle songs and laments in favour of whaling songs, though Steve insisted on including _Shenandoah_ , and Bucky knows better than to argue when he clenches his jaw. Stubborn punk.  
“There’s always the dirty songs,” he says with a shrug. Steve snorts.  
“I don’t think I can sing _Frigging in the Rigging_ , Buck,” he mutters, his ears turning pink.  
Bucky sniggers and rest a hand on the small of Steve’s back and leans in closer.  
_“Four Whores of Baltimore_?” he says with a wink, and Steve turns a little bit pinker.  
“Oh, God no!” he gasps. Bucky chuckles and shakes his head.  
“Okay, no songs about fornication,” he says softly, his fingers working their way under the hem of Steve’s shirt.  
“Marines,” Bucky says suddenly.  
“What, Navvies?” Steve says curiously.  
“The Navy, the Marines, soldiers in the Napoleonic wars and WW2, they all came up with their own songs. _In Mobile, Ball of Kerrymuir_ ,” Bucky grins, “The Marines had a good one ' _The Long and the Short_ ”.  
Steve looks at him expectantly, so he clears his throat and sings the chorus.

_Fuck ‘em all, fuck ‘em all_  
_The long and the short and the tall_  
_Fuck all the captains and all the mates too_  
_Fuck the engineers and the whole God damned crew_  
_So we’re saying goodbye to them all_  
_As back to our rustpots we crawl_  
_We’ll start a commotion this side of the ocean_  
_So cheer up, my lads, fuck ‘em all!_

Steve is in tears by the end of the chorus, his shoulders shaking as he tries to get his laughter under control. The people sat across from them eating curry are cackling and shouting for more. Bucky shakes his head, much to their disappointment and rubs Steve’s back until he has gotten himself under control.  
“Okay, but you gotta sing it,” Steve insists.  
Their curry eating audience loudly agree with Steve, and Bucky can’t say no to something that makes Steve look so damn happy. Ugh. Fuck.  
Steve collects up their rubbish and drops it in the trash, they say goodbye to the curry eaters and walk across the main arena to the Crew camping grounds. Bucky packs up his tent and sleeping bag and they walk over to Steve’s ridiculous campervan. Bucky sets his backpack in the corner while Steve kicks off his shoes and sits cross-legged on the bed with his guitar. Bucky unlaces his boots and pulls them off, shuffling onto the bed and lying sprawled on his back. They run through the set a couple of times, Bucky humming his parts in the absence of a keyboard and figuring out the arrangements and quickly have a set they’re both happy with.  
Bucky is lying on his stomach writing out the music to _'The Long and the Short_ ' in Steve’s notebook when his walkie talkie crackles at him. He unclips it from his belt and holds it to his mouth.  
“Barnes,” he says clearly.  
“Yeah… Uh. Is this thing working?”  
“Scott?” Bucky had half expected it to be Luis.  
“Bucky? Yeah. I… Uh. Need help,” Scott stammers.  
“What’s the code, Scott?” Bucky says with sigh. Steve glances up from his guitar.  
“Yeah. Right. You need a code,” there is a pause. Bucky sits up and reaches for his boots. “What’s the code for naked guy who keeps licking people? I mean, no one's licking back, so it’s not a ‘Space Cowboy’. They’re all pretty repulsed”.  
Bucky pulls on his boots and laces them up.  
“I’m repulsed. Very repulsed,” Scott mutters. “He licked me, Barnes”.  
Bucky tries not to laugh. He doesn’t try very hard, admittedly. Steve sets his guitar against the wall and pulls on his shoes.  
“You call first aid?” Bucky asks, checking his pockets for his phone and wallet.  
“Yeah, they said he’s physically fine and left,” Bucky can hear the scowl in Scott’s voice.  
He swears under his breath. So much for the Hippocratic oath.  
“Where are you?” he says, pushing open the door and stepping down onto the trampled grass, Steve following after and locking up.  
“Uh. Reaper bridge. What kind of name is that? That’s seriously depressing,” Scott’s voice is briefly muffled while he shouts a warning to some festival goers. “But we’re still moving”.  
“On our way,”  
Bucky leads the way across the campsite, glancing back at Steve.  
“You sure you wanna come?” he says, still holding on to the radio.  
“Yeah,” Steve says with a grin.

They walk along the footpath, Bucky checking in on the walkie talkie as they go, until they reach Reaper bridge where Scott is following a tall, skinny guy who is dressed only in spatters of mud. Bucky hopes it’s mud. They watch him wandering around for a few minutes before Bucky turns to Steve.  
“Alright, there’s a Salvation Army tent over there,” he gestures to a nearby marquee. “Can you go tell them what’s happening? See if they’ve got any clothes or a blanket?”  
Steve nods and claps him on the shoulder before jogging off. Bucky walks over to Scott, who is red faced and out of breath from running around.  
“I hate this place,” he wheezes. “What the hell is wrong with these people?”  
Bucky pats him on the back and keeps an eye on Friendly Naked Guy. People are giving him a wide berth, at least.  
Steve appears a minute later with a folded up foil blanket and an oversized t-shirt.  
“This is all they had,” he says. Bucky tucks the foil blanket in his belt.  
“Thanks,” he shakes out the shirt. “You might wanna step back”.  
Steve doesn’t step back, and follows Bucky as he walks over to the Friendly Naked Guy. Bucky gestures for him to stay put and cuts in front of the guy with an exaggerated smile. He holds out the t-shirt, talking softly like he’s approaching a stray dog and pulls it over the guys head, threading his arms through the sleeves. He steps back and lets the guy walk around for a while before shaking out the foil blanket and approaching him again. He chatters softly, making sure the guy is calm and placid before wrapping the foil around his waist and tying it securely at his hip. He steps back and lets the guy wander away across the campsite. Steve comes up behind him and wraps both arms around his shoulders. Bucky leans back against him, patting him on the arm.  
“So that’s it?” Scott grumbles, walking over to them. “Shouldn’t we do something?”  
Bucky shrugs and watches the guy sit down on the grass to poke at his shiny makeshift skirt.  
“He ain’t naked,” he says. “Give him a couple of hours and he’ll come down”.  
He gives Steve a slap on the arm.  
“C’mon Steve, I need a shower,” he says.  
Steve lets go of him and they say goodbye to Scott before crossing Reaper bridge and heading back to their campsite.  
“Why is it called Reaper bridge?” Steve asks as they cross over.  
“It’s named after a festival worker,” Bucky says. “O’Malley alley, Scott street, they're all named after workers. Reaper bridge is a goth called Nick. Scott street is Stuart, he died from cancer. O’Malley had a heart attack a few years back”.  
Steve frowns. “That’s depressing,” he mutters.  
Bucky wraps an arm around his waist.  
“It ain’t so bad,” he says softly.

They walk back to the campervan, where Bucky dumps his walkie talkie and the contents of his pockets, gathers up his toiletries and a change of clothes and heads over to the showers. He lingers under the warm water before shaving and brushing his teeth, dragging clean clothes over wet skin and returning to the campervan.  
Steve is already lying on the bed reading Moby Dick. Bucky snorts at him and climbs onto the bed beside him, muttering derisively at his book. Steve chuckles and wraps an arm around him. Bucky rests his head on his shoulder as Steve starts to read aloud, and falls asleep to the sound of his clear low voice.

Bucky wakes to the sound of his alarm. He fumbles for his phone and silences it. dropping it on the mattress. Steve shifts and grumbles in his sleep, arm stretched across Bucky’s chest and leg thrown over his hip. He rubs his eyes and yawns. Damned octopus.  
Bucky slides out from under the blankets and limbs, shushing Steve when he complains, and gets up. He’s still dressed from the previous night, so changes into a clean t-shirt and pulls on his boots. He grabs his toiletries and slips out to the cubicles to brush his teeth and take a piss, padding back to the campervan over dew soaked grass.  
He tucks his phone and wallet into his pockets, clips his walkie talkie to his belt and climbs onto the bed, pulling back the covers until he can find an appropriate patch of skin to kiss. Steve rumbles and tries to pull him back into bed, still half asleep. Bucky rearranges the covers and leaves him to sleep, closing the door quietly behind him. 

He walks down to the main arena and wanders around the food stalls until he finds one that's open and buys himself some coffee and toast and sits down at one of the picnic benches to eat his breakfast. The arena is fairly quiet, with a few people determinedly dancing to imaginary music or sleeping it off. Nothing is currently on fire, though he had woken up a couple of times in the night to the sound of fire engines.  
He’s chewing on his last crust when Luis flops down onto the bench next to him and slumps forward over the table.  
“Too early, man,” he groans.  
Bucky gives him a sympathetic pat on the back and goes up the the stall to buy coffee and a waffle, setting both on the table in front of Luis. He makes a vaguely grateful noise as Bucky sits down to his own coffee.  
“Fire engines?” he asks while Luis straightens up to take a bite out of his waffle.  
“Yeah, some dude burned down his tent,” Luis chews and swallows. “Wind kinda blew it along into some other tents and… Fwoom”.  
“Everyone okay?”  
“Yeah,” Luis breaks a piece off his waffle. “This place is like the last days of the Roman Empire, y’know?”  
Bucky nods and swallows a mouthful of coffee. Luis brightens up suddenly.  
“Hey, your guy is playing today, right?”  
Bucky nods and tries not to smile. Luis elbows him.  
“Yeah, you gonna see him play?”  
Bucky hunches in on himself and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand.  
“I. Uh. I’m gonna be playing with him,” he mutters.  
Luis lets out a yelp and whacks Bucky on the back.  
“For real? Man, that’s great,” Luis pulls a copy of the line up out of his pocket. “When you on? Seven? I can do seven,” he tucks the sheet back in his pocket and goes back to eating his waffle while Bucky resigns himself to his fate.  
He finishes his coffee and gives Luis a thump on the shoulder before heading off to his shift. 

He relieves the security on the NME stage, and is glad to see it’s not Kurt, but a guy he’s pretty sure is called Dave who hangs around with him. Probably-Dave assures Bucky that Kurt is still alive, just crashed out in the corner of the Crew Camping marquee, but they’ve blocked him off with some chairs so no one will trip over him.  
Probably-Dave wanders off in search of food, and Bucky leans up against the railing and does his best to not fret about playing for a crowd of people that evening.  
Steve appears a few hours later with coffee. He leans against the barrier and they talk for a while until the first band starts up at midday and Bucky sends him off to get something to eat.  
The rest of his shift passes slowly, the gathered crowd hungover and lethargic. As the day wears on they’ll liven up. Then get too lively. Then it’ll be fire engines and ambulances and long-suffering parents.  
He gets replaced at the end of his shift by one of the wall-eyed lumps of meat that pass for sentient beings, and Bucky keeps his mouth shut and heads backstage where he finds Steve waiting for him.  
“Hey,” he says softly. “You eaten?”  
Steve shakes his head and Bucky tuts at him, but links their fingers together and leads him out to the main arena. He buys them a portion of chips each and they eat while walking back to the campsite.  
They make their way to the campervan, Bucky dumps his walkie talkie on the counter and grabs a change of clothes, heading over to the showers to wash and shave. He rinses off the sweat and grime and scrubs his hair, drying himself off with a borrowed towel before getting dressed. He walks back to the campervan and finds Steve sat on the bed, guitar in his lap, and resists the urge to push him down onto the mattress and tousle his hair. Instead he sits down and they go through the set list, and then pulls the guitar out of his hands, pushes him down onto the bed and kisses him until the furrow in his brow smooths away.

Steve changes into a clean shirt while Bucky reads through their set list one last time. Steve packs his guitar into its case and they climb out of the campervan, Bucky holding onto the guitar while Steve locks up behind them. He takes the instrument back, pulling the strap over his shoulder and they walk across the campsite to the main arena, hands clasped together.  
They walk around the striped red and yellow marquee that houses the Festival Republic stage to the backstage area, and wait around while the current act finishes their set. Paul, the musician who’s lending them a keyboard shows up and Steve introduces him to Bucky. They shakes hands and talk briefly while the roadies and performers take down their gear and clear the stage. Bucky follows Paul onto the stage where they set up his keyboard, plugging it into the rack of amps along the stage and doing some quick checks with the sound manager tucked into his booth at the other end of the marquee.  
Bucky sits at the keyboard, plays a few notes and fiddles with the settings. He positions his mic and counts into it, getting an all clear from the sound booth.  
Steve comes onto the stage, his guitar unpacked and slung over his shoulder. He hovers behind Bucky for a moment before resting a hand on his shoulder, Bucky tilts his head up and gives him a quick smile and Steve presses a kiss to his forehead before walking over to the mic stand positioned in the middle of the stage. He adjusts the height and does his own sound check, arranging his guitar on his hip and playing a few chords.  
Bucky glances up at the gathering crowd. The marquee is full, with people clustered around the doorways peering in. He swallows and shakes out his hands, trying to keep his fingers steady. The lights dim briefly, and a hot, bright spotlight is pointed to the stage.

Steve calls out a greeting to the crowd, who shout back. A smattering of voices ask where Bucky is and Steve glances over at him. Bucky sheepishly raises a hand and there is a ripple of applause and whooping. In a crowd of several thousand people he can still hear Luis as clear as day. Steve starts talking, using a similar patter to when he played in Sziget. He gets the crowd to start shouting ‘Arr’, goading them into shouting louder and louder before launching into _Boney Was a Warrior_ , shouting the lyrics rather than singing them. The song ends and he talks a little about shanties, getting the crowd to practice the response part of _Blood Red Roses_. Bucky sings the response, softly at first, increasing in volume as the crowd gets louder. The song begins and Bucky can hardly hear himself by the end of it.  
Steve takes a moment to tell the story of Admiral Nelson, having died in battle, being preserved in a barrel of brandy for the voyage home. When the cask was finally opened, it was found to have been drunk dry by sailors. He follows the story with _A Drop of Nelson’s Blood_. Bucky listens closely, singing the returns and playing enough for support but not to detract from the guitar and Steve’s sweet, steady voice. He sings along to _Haul on the Bowline_ and _Hanging Johnny_ , and then Steve introduces _Shenandoah._  
Bucky clears his throat and positions his fingers on the keys. He closes his eyes and thinks of Steve’s apartment, the plain upright piano tucked in the corner, hands on his shoulders, a warm mouth pressed to the nape of his neck as he runs his fingers over the yellowed keys.  
His hands remember the melody and he begins to sing. Steve plucks a sparse accompaniment and sings along, their voices overlapping and flowing together, joining and separating and drawing to an end.  
It takes a moment for Bucky to hear the crowd roar, and another moment to realise it has anything to do with him. Steve grins at him and he ducks his head, busying himself with the keyboard settings.  
Steve sings _Bully in the Alley_ and thanks the crowd for listening, and before they can get too rowdy asks if they want to hear Bucky sing. The response is deafening, and Bucky buries his face in his hands. He’s pretty sure he can hear Luis egging the crowd on. He takes a deep breath, shakes out his shoulders and starts to play.

_Fuck ‘em all, fuck ‘em all_  
_The long and the short and the tall_  
_Fuck all the Admirals who give us the flak_  
_They don’t give a shit if we ever come back_  
_So we’re saying goodbye to them all_  
_As over the gangplank we crawl_  
_There’ll be no promotion this side of the ocean_  
_So cheer up my lads, fuck ‘em all_

They leave the stage with the audience stomping their feet and whistling, and as Steve is zipping his guitar back up in its case they can hear the crowd chanting ‘Fuck ‘em all! fuck ‘em all’, and Bucky has to sit down on the floor for a minute.  
Steve pulls Bucky to his feet, wrapping him up in a hug. Bucky grips onto his shirt to keep from stumbling and kisses him, soft presses of lips between fits of laughter as the crowd keep singing.

They walk across the main arena, Steve’s guitar strapped to his back and Bucky’s arm wrapped around his waist. They stop at a food stand to buy some burritos and walk around the arena for a while, spilling rice and refried beans as they go.  
They get stopped and asked for autographs, which sends Bucky into another fit of giggles. Steve rubs his back and apologises, signing his autograph and sketching a little pirate ship on their festival program. Bucky pulls himself together long enough to scratch out his signature and pose for a photo, and they head back to the campsite.

Steve unlocks the door to the campervan and climbs in, setting his guitar against the wall. Bucky follows, standing in the doorway and watching Steve as he empties his pockets onto the counter and toes off his shoes. He glances up as Bucky pulls the door closed.  
“What?” Steve says, half challenging. Bucky grins and shakes his head.  
“Nothin',” he says softly. Steve stalks over to him.  
“What?” he says, his voice a low murmur.  
“Nothin’,” Bucky responds, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Steve’s narrow waist. Steve cradles Bucky’s face in his hands.  
“What?” he murmurs against his lips.  
Bucky crushes their mouths together, biting down on Steve’s lower lip and tugging it between his teeth. Steve gasps and tangles his fingers in dark hair and Bucky licks into his mouth, sliding his hands under his shirt. Steve flicks his tongue against Bucky’s and he hums in response, sucking Steve’s tongue into his mouth and grazing it with his teeth. Bucky slides his hands up the smooth expanse of his chest, circling his thumbs over taut nipples while Steve shivers under his touch.  
They part long enough for Bucky to tug Steve’s shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor and bending his head to press his mouth to where his thumb had been, sucking the areola while Steve grasps his shoulders, sliding a hand to the nape of his neck and gasping his name. Bucky slides his hand across Steve’s chest, flicking his thumb over the taut nub of flesh. He drags his teeth over the darkened skin and Steve moans, pulling at his t-shirt and stroking his calloused hands across warm skin.  
Bucky straightens up and Steve yanks off his t-shirt, bundling it up and tossing it across the room before running his hands up his sides and kissing him. Bucky strokes his fingers through short blond hair, tilting his head and sucking a line of marks down Steve’s throat.  
Steve pulls at him, walking them towards the bed and pushing him down on to the mattress. Bucky gives him a filthy grin and drags him down as well, folding his arms around Steve's waist and pressing kisses and bites to his shoulder. Steve yelps when he bites a little too hard, pulling back to nibble his way down Bucky’s sternum, fingers trailing over his ribs.  
He pauses to unfasten Bucky’s boots, tugging them off and peeling off his socks. He presses his mouth to an ankle and Bucky calls him a fuckin’ tease.  
Steve presses his smiling mouth to the stiff fabric of Bucky’s jeans, pressing his nose to the crease of his thigh and running his hand over the hard length trapped underneath. Bucky squirms and curses under his breath as Steve strokes him firmly, sucking kisses at his hip and across his stomach.  
Steve moves onto the floor, unfastens Bucky’s jeans and slides them down his hips, peeling down his shorts and nuzzling at the exposed pale skin while Bucky gasps and kicks his clothing off, bending down to hook Steve under the arms and haul him up the bed.  
Steve kisses him roughly, hands moving restlessly, stroking up his arms, skimming along his hips, pressing to his chest while Bucky unbuttons Steve’s chinos and tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, pushing them down his hips. Steve shifts and slides them off, kicking the bundled fabric onto the floor before kissing his way up the column of Bucky’s throat, nibbling at the sensitive skin behind his ear while he curses softly and pulls Steve against him, parting his thighs and pressing his feet flat against the bed. Steve braces his weight on his forearms and thrusts against him, swearing under his breath as Bucky grasps his hips and guides his movements, tilting his head until their mouths find each other and kiss, slow and sweet until they are breathless with it.  
Bucky strokes up Steve’s spine, resting his fingers between his shoulders and whispering his name into his lips. Steve sucks open mouthed kisses to his jaw, his throat, his shoulder and Bucky comes. He cups the top of Steve’s thighs and whispers softly against his lips as Steve rocks against him, shudders and comes.  
Bucky cradles Steve’s head against his shoulder, hands stroking down his back and massaging between his shoulder blades while Steve curls his hands around Bucky’s shoulders, idly stroking circles against skin with his thumbs.  
“You okay?” Bucky murmurs against his scalp. Steve wraps his arms tightly around his shoulders.  
“Yeah,” he says softly. “ _Drágo_ ,” he whispers.

Bucky wakes up early, and it takes a moment to figure out that it’s the flashing lights from a passing fire engine that woke him. Steve is curled around him, head pillowed on his stomach and hand resting on his hip, Bucky idly strokes Steve’s back, rubbing his thumb across the nape of his neck. He dozes for a while, warm and contented until his alarm starts beeping at him. He frowns and fumbles for his phone, turning off the sound and slowly extricating himself from Steve’s embrace.  
He pulls on clean clothing, slips on his boots and grabs his toiletries, climbing out of the campervan and heading across the grass to the cubicles.  
There is a strong smell of burning plastic in the air and he looks around. The campsite is quiet and half empty, most of the acts who were staying for the festival having left the previous evening. Smart fuckers, he thinks, walking across the trampled grass.  
He showers, rinsing off the sweat and grease of the previous day, shaves and brushes his teeth. He dresses quickly and heads back to the campervan, slipping his phone and wallet into his pockets and tying up his boots. Steve stirs in the bed and calls out to him, so he climbs onto the mattress and pulls back the blankets.  
“Hey, Stevie,” he whispers. “I gotta go to work”.  
Steve grumbles and reaches out to him, so he lays down and lets Steve tuck up against him.  
“I was gonna talk to you,” Steve mumbles into his shoulder.  
“Yeah? Can it wait?”  
Steve shakes his head. “Was gonna ask you to be my partner”.  
Bucky chuckles and scratches his fingers through his short blond hair.  
“Already am, aren’t I?”  
Steve grumbles and pokes him in the ribs.  
“I mean music,” he says. He glances at Bucky. “We work great together, and I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes without you around”.  
Bucky starts to argue but Steve sets his jaw and shakes his head.  
“I didn’t know a damn thing about shanties or whaling songs before I met you, and was tied up by a bullshit contract that I hated…”  
Bucky shushes him, stroking fingers through his hair. Steve hesitates before speaking again.  
“I want you in the studio with me, and on stage. And you wouldn’t be working for me, we’d be equal partners, split everything fifty-fifty. When my contract comes up we’ll renegotiate, or sign up somewhere else or start our own label,” he looks up at Bucky with sleepy blue eyes and damnit, how is he supposed to argue with that?  
“Just think about it, okay?” he says finally. “Don’t just say no”.  
“Sure, Stevie,” Bucky says softly.  
“You’ll think about it?”  
Bucky grins at him and he smiles warily back.  
“Yeah. And when I’ve thought about it I’ll say yes,” he says softly.  
He kisses Steve on the forehead and gets up, patting him on the hip.  
“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, clipping his walkie talkie to his belt.

Bucky walks down to the main arena. Most of the food stalls have packed up and left already, but a couple remain. He buys a cup of coffee and a muffin and walks down to the main gate, where he finds Scott on duty. Scott looks halfway between traumatised and unconscious, which isn’t unusual for the last night of a festival.  
“Hey Scott,” he says gently. “Rough night?” he unpeels the paper case from his muffin and takes a bite.  
Scott nods and stares into the middle distance.  
“They… Uh. They set fire to the toilets,” he says absently.  
Bucky nods sympathetically as he chews.  
“There were some… Shopping trolleys. Got them from the local supermarket,” Scott blinks slowly. “And did some chariot racing around the Red campsite. They were singing the Chariots of Fire theme tune. And then. Well, they _were_ chariots of fire…” he says quietly.  
“End up in the Thames?” Bucky asks, suppressing a smirk.  
“Oh, yeah,” Scott says with a nod. “It’s was impressive, actually. Also terrifying. Actually mostly terrifying”.  
Bucky swallows the last of his muffin and pats Scott on the back.  
“Go get some sleep, man,” he says gently.  
Scott blinks and nods.  
“Yeah,” he mutters and starts walking back to the arena. He stops and turns around. “Saw you playing last night. It was really good,” he says awkwardly. Bucky salutes him with his coffee cup.  
“Thanks,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek.  
Scott waves and turns to walk down the road. Bucky finishes his coffee and leans against the gate. There is still a lingering smell of burning plastic in the air, and the dirt around the gate has been churned up from the fire engines.  
The morning passes quickly, merchandise stalls and food vans packing up and leaving the festival, as well as labourers and technicians taking down the stages and rigs.  
Scott and Luis come walking up the road weighed down with backpacks and tent shortly after midday. Luis hugs Bucky more times than necessary, and won’t shut up about the gig, much to Bucky’s embarrassment. He sends them on their way before they miss their train.  
Steve comes down in the afternoon to keep him company. They prop the gate open and watch the festival goers trudge past with their bags and tents. A few people recognise them and ask them both for autographs and pictures, which Bucky still finds slightly surreal. 

At the end of his shift Bucky leaves the gate propped open and he walks with Steve back to the campsite, their shoulders bumping against each other until Bucky wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him closer.  
They walk over to the security portacabin, where Natasha is scowling at her paperwork. Bucky hands over his walkie talkie, signs his paperwork and takes his wages. Natasha gets up.  
“Come here, Barnes,” she says and gives him a hug. “See you at Bestival”.  
Bucky groans and hugs her back. “See you then, Nat,” he says quietly.  
She lets him go and nods to Steve, hovering outside the portacabin.  
They walk across to the campsite to the campervan and Steve hesitates.  
“So, you wanna come back with me,” he scratches the back of his head. “Or I can take you the train station…”  
Bucky leans forward and presses a soft, brushing kiss to his lips.  
“I said yes, didn’t I?,” he breathes against Steve’s lips before pulling back. “C’mon, let's go home”.  
Steve smiles at him, bright like staring into the sun and Bucky can’t seem to catch his breath. They climb into the van and Steve starts the engine, pulling out onto the dirt track and lurching over the road where the fire engine had torn up the earth. He passes the gate and pulls out onto the main road, heading south.  
Bucky slumps in the passenger seat and thinks of his fingers pressing yellowing keys and worn wooden panelling digging into his back. He sings softly under his breath until Steve picks up the melody, their voices twining together, low and sweet.

_Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you_  
_Away you rolling river_  
_Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you_  
_Away, we’re bound away_  
_‘Cross the wide Missouri._


	7. Bestival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I ain't dressing like a pirate," he grouses.  
> "I got you a really nice frock coat," Steve says softly. "Green brocade".  
> Bucky scrunches up his face. Damnit.  
> "Mine's blue," Steve says slowly.  
> Damnit. Bucky would really like to see Steve wearing that. He'd also like to see him not wearing it. And the points in between the two, _that_ he really wants to see.  
>  "Fine".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter folks!  
> *sniff* it's been a blast, guys. And we'll no doubt be seeing these losers at some point in the future.  
> Until then, pirates, whatever the plural of Elvis is and a classic ride off into the sunset.
> 
> A thousand thank yous to the fabulous Eidheann, for support where needed, threats where required and keeping track of who's hands were where during the smut.
> 
> Come find me on thelittleblackfox.tumblr and I will bore you with music and Sebastians Stans punchably pretty face.

Bucky catches the 07:50 train from Dawlish on Wednesday morning. He sets his backpack in the luggage rack and bumps his way down the aisle to the seats.  
He had left Steve sleeping in the caravan, hefting his bag onto his shoulders and leaving the keys on the counter along with a note calling him a lazy fucker.  
He sighs and slumps down in his seat. Steve will be making his own way to the festival on Friday and he’d kissed him goodbye less than an hour ago, but Bucky still misses the jerk.  
They had spent a week in London getting the tour sorted out, a dozen or so dates spread around from Brighton to Manchester, and feelers put out for several more dates that they were waiting to hear back from.  
When Bucky had suggested spending a few days at his place Steve had jumped at the chance. And yeah, Bucky had been wary of showing Steve how he lived outside of festival work, but where Bucky saw a poky little caravan Steve saw a cozy hideaway from the world perched on a hill in sight of the sea. He didn’t care that it was freezing in winter or stifling in summer, that all Bucky’s books were stacked in orange crates under the bed or that the oven only worked half of the time. All he cared about was the ten minute walk through scrubland to reach the sandy beach, the bed spread with patchwork quilts, their colours faded over the years and how neatly the two of them fitted into each other's spaces, their raggedy edges overlapping.

The train pulls into Exeter St Davids station and he grabs his bag and leaves the train, crossing the platform to catch the 10:16 train to Salisbury. He dumps his bag in the luggage rack and finds a seat. He runs through everything he’s packed, clothes, tent, sleeping bag, toiletries. There is a copy of The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner that Steve tucked into his backpack which he’ll at least try to read. In retaliation Bucky has left him with The Colour of Magic by Terry Pratchett.  
Bucky smiles to himself and watches the train stations of southern England trundle past.  
He alights at Salisbury, stopping to get a cup of coffee before boarding the 10:32 to Southampton.  
After another half hour of travelling he hefts his backpack onto his shoulders and climbs down from the train, walks out the train station and down to the bus stop. He drops his backpack on the ground and waits for the Quay Connect shuttle.  
The bus arrives after a long wait. Bucky pays his fair and boards, heaving his backpack onto the seat next to him. It's a short journey, a handful of minutes and he’s moving again, hefting his bag onto his shoulders and walking from the bus stop to the Red Jet passenger terminal. He buys a ticket from the self-serve machine and boards the ferry.  
He dumps his bag in the luggage rack and makes his way to the upper deck to lean over the railing and watch the ferry travel down the Southampton Water and cross the Solent.  
He takes a picture and sends it to Steve, who responds a moment later with a message that makes him go pink around the ears.  
He shoves the phone back into his pocket and stares out at the waters, his elbows resting on the railing.  
The ferry docks at Cowes. Bucky grabs his bag and files off with the handful of travellers on board, walking down past the ticket office and along the footpath to the bus station. It’s a wait of only a few minutes for the bus to arrive. He pays his fare and boards, finding a seat and setting his bag next to him. He stares out the window as the bus trundles past rows of terraced houses and pubs, looping around a cricket field and passing a hospital before stopping at Newport. He picks up his bag and shuffles down the aisle, stepping onto the pavement and crossing the bus station.  
He drops his bag and sits to wait the twenty minutes for the next bus. He boards and shows his ticket to the driver, and watches more of the Isle moving past, houses giving over to farmland and fields of lavender. He closes his eyes and thinks of his Grandmother with her basket of lavender on Mitcham Common, how the smell clung to everything. He thinks of Steve sitting cross-legged on their bed with an old cigar box of photographs, Bucky resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder as they looked through images of brightly painted vardo and weathered faces.  
The bus stops at Robin Hill and he climbs down onto the road, pausing to heft the straps over his shoulders. He walks along the road and up to the festival site.

Bucky has a soft spot for Bestival. Running for around ten years, it started out as a small event attended by ten thousand people, though these days the numbers are five times that. It’s also about as far from Reading as you can get, festival wise, featuring a fancy dress day, social and environmental work, vegetarianism, fundraising for charities, llamas, Morris dancing and a Carnival.  
After the tour of Purgatory that is Reading, Bestival goes some way into reviving any lingering faith you might have in humanity.

He finds Natasha in the security office going through her list of volunteers and working through schedules. He knocks on the door and she looks up, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  
“Where the hell have you been, Barnes,” she demands, getting up to give him a hug.  
“Hey, I don’t start work for at least an hour,” he responds.  
She pulls back, grasping him by the arms and taking a good look at him. She pokes the bridge of his nose where his skin is peeling. He flinches and rubs at it with the back of his fingers.  
“Caught the sun,” Natasha says with a smirk.  
“Yeah,” Bucky stops fidgeting and puts his hands in his pockets. “Fell asleep on the beach. Steve got me some gunk made out of weeds for it”.  
Really nice, soothing gunk. But he had no intention of telling her that. Natasha raises her eyebrows.  
“The beach?” she sounds incredulous. “Holy shit, Barnes! Did you actually take a guy back to your place?”  
Bucky shifts awkwardly while Natasha laughs. Devil woman. Her expression softens as she looks at him.  
“You’re good for each other,” she says before handing over his ID badge and walkie talkie.  
“Yeah,” he murmurs, pocketing the ID badge and clipping the radio to his belt.  
“Well you were both insufferable shits before, so for our sakes keep him around,” she says with a grin. Devil. Woman.  
“Aww, fuck off,” he laughs, snatching up his rota from the table and heading for the door.  
“At least let me be bridesmaid,” she shouts after him. Bucky lets out a yelp, grabbing his backpack and hefting it onto his shoulders.  
“Seriously, Nat. Fuck right off!” he calls over his shoulder, walking down the road and out of earshot before she can start talking about fuckin’ flowers or something equally embarrassing.

The Staff campsite is on the far side of the festival ground, tucked between the various camping areas and the ‘Boutique’ camping ground where Steve has probably booked an Indian safari tent or an Airstream for the weekend.  
Well, maybe Bucky is a little bit curious to see what he’s come up with.  
He takes a picture of the festival grounds and sends it to Steve. A few minutes later he gets a picture back of a stretch of yellow sand and blue waters. He recognises the spot, where the day before he had stretched out on the sand while Steve had strummed his guitar and written down snatches of lyrics in his notebook, and feels a twist in his gut. It’s not the sea he misses, or the piano in Steve’s apartment.  
He taps out a message.

**Barnes:** _Campsite’s open 12 tomorrow. Shift ends at 4_

He shoves the phone back in his pocket and finds a suitable spot and sets up his tent, dumping his backpack and sleeping bag inside before zipping it up and walking back to the festival site. His phone chimes and he fishes it out of his pocket to see a message from Steve.

**Stevie:** _See you tomorrow then_

He sticks the phone back in his pocket and can’t help the small smile that tugs at his mouth and stays there the rest of the day.

He walks across the grass and down to the the winding road that circles the festival site. There are three separate gates for accessing the festival, the coach and taxi drop off point right by the action, the Boutique entrance for the idiots with money and people working at the festival, and the general public entrance which is about ten thousand miles from anywhere and anything.  
He skirts around the staff and trader car park and walks over to the Boutique entrance where Kurt is propped up against the gate. He looks up and smiles when he sees Bucky approaching.  
They chat for a while, it’s Kurt's first Bestival and he’s looking forward to fancy dress Saturday. He’s brought a blue lamé Elvis costume to wear. Bucky has to ask him to repeat himself, and gets a monologue on Elvis costumes through the ages, specifically the jumpsuits made by Bill Belew for Aloha in Hawaii. Kurt has a replica of the Blue Nail suit that featured in the 1972 documentary ‘Elvis on Tour’.  
Bucky leans against the gate in silent awe, except for the occasional nod and ‘uh-huh?’ as Kurt talks about Pinwheels and Azure Stars and Bucky wonders if he has actually lost his mind.  
Kurt finally runs out of things to say, nods at Bucky and mutters something about it being good to talk. Bucky nods, still struck dumb as Kurt saunters down the road, whistling _‘Love me Tender'_ and occasionally gyrating his hips. 

The rest of Bucky’s afternoon is busy dealing with gate duties as production staff, merchandise stalls, food vans and traders travel back and forth.  
He checks tickets and travel passes, gives directions and instructions. He prefers work at the start of the festival, where everyone is relaxed and easygoing to the end of the festival, where organisers have worked out that there is a very specific reason why everyone is so relaxed and bring in the police and sniffer dogs.  
At the end of his shift Wanda and Pietro arrive to replace him, and tell him about their summer interrailing, Pietro chattering at a speed that would put Luis to shame with Wanda interjecting here and there. Bucky gives them a contact for a Halloween festival in Prague that Wanda looks interested in and makes sure they know what they’re doing before he leaves them to get on with their shift.  
Instead of walking back to his tent he follows the road to the festival site, walking through the woods to the Fantasy Field where the Main stage is being set up. He wanders around until he finds Barton setting up his bar between the Main stage and the Big Top stage. Bucky pitches in and they get the marquee up, the awning in position and everything strapped into place. Bucky sets up the counters while Barton sorts out the chillers and fonts, calling it quits after the last handpump is set up on the bar and dragging Bucky out to the field in search of food He buys them each a portion of chips doused in melted raclette cheese and they sit at a picnic bench by the food stall to pick away at their meals.  
“You at Bratislava next month?” Barton asks, dripping cheese sauce on his shirt.  
Bucky shakes his head.  
“Last festival of the year,” he says. Barton raises his eyebrows.  
“Yeah? Not doing Prague either?” he sounds surprised. “You got plans?”  
“Steve’s got his tour in November, so doing that,” Bucky sucks raclette off his fingers. “Got some studio time booked after Christmas”.  
Barton whistles. “Oh yeah, forgot you were a rock star now”.  
Bucky snorts. “Hardly,” he says with a grin. “What about you?”  
Barton sits back and sighs. “Go somewhere warm for a few weeks. Maybe Greece. Sleep all day, look at old things”.  
“Ask Nat to go with you,” he says, ignoring Barton's suppressed yelp. “C’mon, man. She’ll say yes”.  
Barton waves a chip at him. “Just because you’ve got yourself a pretty boy…”  
“Ask her,” Bucky says softly. “She’ll say yes”.  
Barton shoves a chip in his mouth and chews defiantly.  
“You coming back next year?” he asks.  
Bucky shrugs. “One way or another”.  
“Okay,” he says, mollified. “Good”.  
Bucky collects up his wrappers and drops them in the trash, saying goodnight to Barton and turning away.  
“You think she’ll say yes?” Barton calls after him.  
“She’ll bitch about how long it took you, but yeah,” Bucky grins at him. “‘Course she will”.  
Barton hums to himself and Bucky leaves him to it, walking across the grass and cutting through the Boutique campsite to get to his tent.  
He calls up Steve to say goodnight, and murmur soft words of affection that he’ll vehemently deny in the morning.  
He unlaces his boots, unclips his walkie talkie and climbs into his sleeping bag. It takes him a long time to fall asleep in a quiet tent without a warm weight pressed against him and steady slow breaths against his shoulder.

Bucky wakes up early, yawns and stretches, his knuckles bumping against the stretched canvas of his tent. He fumbles for his phone and checks the time, then pulls on his boots, grabs some clean clothes and his toiletries and heads to the cubicles to shower. He shaves and brushes his teeth before dressing quickly in the chill morning air and walking back to his tent to grab his phone and wallet.  
He heads to the south side of the staff campsite where there are a couple of food vans parked up selling drinks and snacks, and buys a cup of coffee and some sort of muffin with vegetables and bird seed in it. He eats his early breakfast on the way back to his tent, the muffin pretty good, if a bit gritty. He gets his book out of his backpack and sits on the grass outside the tent to read and sip his coffee.  
The book is a little weird, but he likes the rhythm of the language, and the way it’s so oddly written.  
When his coffee is long finished he gets up, dropping the book back in his tent and fetching his phone and walkie talkie. He sets off, cutting through the Boutique campsite to the Fantasy Field where he spots Scott and Luis sat at a picnic table at one of the food stands and goes over to say hi.  
“Hey Bucky,” Scott says cheerfully.  
“Hey,” Bucky glances down at Luis, face down on the table. “You need coffee, Luis?”  
There is a faint whimper in response, so Bucky goes to the stand to order three coffees. He puts them down on the table and sits opposite Luis, who makes a small keening noise of gratitude.  
“You guys know Kurt, right?” Bucky asks, taking a sip of coffee.  
“He tell you about his costume?” Scott asks with a grin. Bucky nods. “You dressing up?”  
He hasn’t even thought about costumes. Knowing his luck Steve has probably already hired a full Pirate Captain outfit. His mouth twitches. That wouldn’t be so bad, actually.  
“What about you?” he asks Scott.  
“Got a superhero costume,” he says proudly. Bucky snorts coffee. “What? I can be a superhero!” he yelps indignantly.  
“Sure you can,” Bucky says with a smile.  
He finishes his coffee and pats Luis on the back.  
“Drink your coffee Luis,” he says softly. Luis mumbles and waves a hand at him.  
He says goodbye to Scott and drops his empty cup in the trash, heading back through Boutique camping and east along the empty parking lots to the main entrance. Probably Dave is on shift, so Bucky sends him off to get something to eat and rest.

The first few hours of his shift is quiet, as the festival campsites don’t open until midday. He gets a few production staff shuttling back and forth and has to turn a few early arrivals away, but for the most part he’s left in peace.  
At midday people start arriving in ones and twos, then larger groups in cars and campervans. Bucky checks their tickets and passes, and directs them to their campsites. He issues warnings about alcohol and drugs that he knows will be ignored and answers the same dumb questions over and over.  
His heart thumps painfully in his chest when he sees a familiar old hatchback rumbling down the road towards him. He opens the gate and lets it through, pushing it closed and walking over to the driver's side to crouch down while Steve winds down his window. Bucky rests his elbows on the window frame and grins at Steve, who snatches off his sunglasses and drops them onto the passenger seat before Bucky can get any ideas. Bucky darts forward and kisses him, a quick press of lips before pulling back. Steve flushes pink and leans forward, hooking his fingers into the collar of Bucky’s t-shirt and pulling him close, pressing their mouths together and darting his tongue between Bucky’s lips.  
A car horn beeps at them and Bucky lets out a soft groan, pulling back and glaring at the car idling at the other side of the gate.  
“Rain check?” he says with a rueful grin. Steve licks his lips and nods. Bucky takes a breath and pulls himself together. “You know where you’re going?”  
Steve checks his pass. “Boutique camping,” he reads with a dubious expression.  
Bucky points to the road leading west. “Down that way, follow the signs”.  
Bucky leans forward and presses another quick kiss to Steve’s lips. The waiting car beeps its horn again as he straightens up and waves Steve off.  
Bucky is half tempted to call additional security to do a vehicle check on the assholes, but instead checks their passes and directs them to their campsite.  
Steve comes walking down the road a while later, carrying a bottle of water. Bucky closes the gate after a group of people on foot carrying backpacks and tents, latches it and walks over to give him a hug. Steve holds him just as tightly, bottle still clamped in his fist and laughs when Bucky doesn’t let go.  
“I missed you too, Buck,” he says quietly while Bucky grumbles against his shoulder.  
“I was gonna bring you coffee, but it’d be cold by the time I got here so I brought water,” he says with a smile.  
“It’s not that far,” Bucky mutters against his shirt.  
“Bucky it’s like a hundred miles,” Steve grouses and Bucky squeezes him tighter.  
A car horn beeps and Bucky swears under his breath, finally letting go of Steve and walking him over to the gate. Bucky checks the car for a vehicle pass and the passengers for tickets before letting them through.  
They lean against the gate, shoulders pressing together and talking softly, pausing when Bucky has to check tickets and passes while Steve works the gate.  
At the end of his shift Wanda and Pietro arrive to take over. He introduces Steve to them, and Wanda is slightly in awe of him, much to Pietro's amusement. Bucky hooks an arm around Steve’s waist and leads him away with demands for food.

They walk along the road, which Steve still insists is at least a hundred miles long, to the Bollywood field where they walk around the food stands for a while before settling on a South East Asian stall and buying two portions of rendang.  
They take their food into the woods and sit in the shade of the trees to eat, sat side by side with their backs against a large sycamore and their bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip.  
Bucky finishes his food first and shuffles down on the grass, resting his head on Steve’s thigh. Steve props his carton of curry on his lap and eats one handed, pushing the fingers of his other hand into Bucky’s dark hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. Bucky dozes for a while while Steve finishes eating and massages his scalp.  
“Hey, Buck,” he murmurs. Bucky cracks open an eye and mumbles incoherently.  
“We’re on the main stage,” Steve says with a bright smile.  
“Yeah, tomorrow,” Bucky rumbles sleepily. “Five, right?”  
Steve nods, still grinning like a fuckin’ idiot. Bucky frowns at him.  
“You borrow a keyboard?” he asks warily.  
“No, brought one,” Steve replies, still stroking his hair.  
“Christ Stevie, quit spending your money,” Bucky mutters, though his heart skips a beat. “You bought me a keyboard?” Steve nods and Bucky pushes against his hand. “Well, it better not be shit, then”.  
Steve chuckles again and curls his arms around Bucky’s shoulders.  
“Have you seen the Pirate Ship?” Steve asks.  
Bucky has seen the Pirate Ship. It’s hard to miss, a stage shaped like fucking _Pirate Ship_ in the Wishing Tree field south of the staff campsite. It’s where the Saturday carnival will begin, culminating in the annual Saturday afternoon parade. There will be dressing up tents, acrobats, music and the Commedia Dell’Arte will be running around dressed as pirates and fuck knows what else besides. Oh.  
Oh… Fuck.  
“Steve,” Bucky says quietly.  
“Yeah, Buck?” Steve Rogers wipe that fuckin’ grin off your face.  
“Are we playing the Pirate Ship?”  
Steve nods. “She’s called _The Shady Lady_ ,” he says proudly.  
“Of course she is,” Bucky sighs.  
Steve runs his thumb across Bucky’s jaw.  
“You okay, Buck?” he says gently. Bucky scowls at him.  
“I ain’t dressing up like a pirate,” he grouses.  
“I got you a really nice frock coat,” Steve says softly. “Green brocade”.  
Bucky scrunches up his face. Damnit.  
“Mine’s blue,” Steve says slowly.  
Damnit. Bucky would really like to see Steve wearing that. He’d also like to see him not wearing it. And the points in between the two, _that_ he really wants to see.  
“Fine,” he mutters darkly. “What time are we on?”  
“Half eleven to twelve. We teach the crowd some shanties and sing a few songs. It’ll be fun”. Bucky makes a little ‘hmpf’ noise.  
“These coats. You buy them or rent them?” Bucky says with a smirk.  
“Buy,” Steve says warily. “They were pretty cheap”. Bucky gives him a filthy grin and plucks at his sleeve.  
“So doesn’t matter if we lose a few buttons,” Bucky licks his lower lip and takes great pleasure in seeing Steve’s face pale, mostly because he has a good idea where all that blood is rushing to.  
“Uh,” Steve says eloquently.  
Bucky pats him on the knee.  
“C’mon, let's see this fancy new keyboard”.  
He helps Steve to his feet and collects their empty cartons, dumping them in the nearest bin and leading Steve back through the woods.

They walk across the festival grounds to the Staff camping where Bucky packs up his tent and bag before heading over to the Boutique campsite. Bucky gives Steve an expectant look when Steve tangles their fingers together and leads him across the grass. They walk past the yurts and the tipis and wooden chalets to a line of bell tents. The tents are white canvas, shaped like closed lotus flowers. Bucky lets out a low whistle as Steve unzips the circular entrance and they step inside.  
The tent is wide and tall, the curved shape making it easy for them to move around inside without bumping their heads. There are LED lights hanging from the stretched canvas roof and the floor is laid with a fitted carpet. On one side is a table and two chairs, next to it a short hanging rail that has two plastic clothing bags draped over it. There is also a king sized bed spread with Indian quilts and pillows. Bucky walks over to the bed and presses down on the mattress.  
“Is this real?’ he asks.  
“Yeah,” Steve says with a fond smile. “Though I don’t know what you’ve got against inflatable mattresses”. Bucky rolls his eyes.  
“Well, you’ve never had one burst while you’re fucking on it,” he says with a shrug. “Kinda kills the mood”.  
Steve laughs while Bucky sprawls out on the bed.  
“Boots,” Steve chides gently.  
Bucky holds up a foot and Steve chuckles and sits down on the bed next to him, unlacing his boot and slipping it off, dropping it to the floor and removing the other one.  
Bucky stretches and lets out a contented little sigh as Steve crawls up the bed to lie down beside him, sliding his arms around Bucky’s waist and resting his head on his shoulder while Bucky wraps his arms around Steve in turn, running fingers through his short blond hair and brushing soft kisses to his brow. They stay curled up together for long moments before Bucky swears suddenly. Steve lifts his head up and frowns at Bucky, who swears again and unclips his walkie talkie from his belt, thumbs it on and brings it to his mouth.  
“Hey, Nat?” he says into the radio. There is a moment of silence before it crackles back at him.  
“Barnes, what’s up?” Natasha responds.  
“I need cover for Saturday,” Bucky says grudgingly. “Blame Steve”.  
Steve makes a little noise of dissent and Bucky shoves him.  
“Yeah? What’s Steve done now?”  
Bucky stares at the walkie talkie and briefly considers lying. But she would find out. Devil Woman.  
“He’s got us playing the Pirate Ship stage Saturday morning,” Bucky screws his eyes shut and waits for her reaction.  
_“The Shady Lady_?” Oh God, she sounds delighted. “Are you dressing up, Barnes?”  
Bucky keeps quiet. Maybe she’ll forget he’s there and go away.  
“Barnes, are you dressing up as a pirate?” Natasha cackles.  
“Yes,” Bucky mutters.  
Steve gives him a sympathetic pat on the stomach and sits up. Bucky lies back and waits for Natasha to stop laughing. It takes far too long.  
“Okay, no problem,” she wheezes.  
“Thanks Nat,” he says wearily.  
“I’m gonna come take photos,” she adds.  
Bucky glances at Steve, who is lifting a long black canvas case onto the bed.  
“Fine,” he says finally. “See you later”.  
He signs off. Devil Woman.  
Steve unzips the black canvas bag and pulls out a keyboard, looking up at Bucky with such affection that for a moment he can’t breathe.  
“So, I figured you wouldn’t want a synth or any of those things with presets or buttons and dials,” Steve says as he lays the instrument on the bed. “So I got you this”.  
It’s a digital stage piano. A Yamaha P45. Lightweight, slim and compact but still with eighty eight notes and half a dozen sound options. Bucky brushes his hands over the keys.  
“Steve,” he says quietly.  
Steve pushes the instrument towards him.  
“Try it,” he murmurs.  
Bucky sits up and pulls the keyboard onto his lap, it’s lighter than he expected. He runs through the sound options, giving the keys cautious little taps, and has a giddy little moment when he finds the dual keyboard function, which splits the keys into two sections that can have different sound effects. He tries grand piano with violin, and chuckles to himself as he plays a snatch of _Tom Traubert’s Blues_. He looks up at Steve and shakes his head.  
“Stevie, I will dress up as a pirate every fuckin’ day if you want me to,” he laughs.  
Steve grins and shuffles across the bed to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist.  
“You like it?” he asks softly.  
Bucky leans over and kisses him, then switches the sound setting to harpsichord and starts playing the intro to _The Power of Love_ until Steve tackles him to the bed and kisses him over and over until he stops laughing.

They take their instruments outside and sit on the grass in the sunshine, Steve with his guitar on one knee and his notebook beside him, Bucky cross-legged with his piano across his knees.  
They work over the set list, cutting back on the short haul shanties and putting them on a provisional Saturday set list. They add _The Turkish Revelry_ and Steve insists on _The Atchin Tan_ and _Shenandoah_ , while Bucky adds _Here’s the Tender Coming_. They squabble affectionately over the song order, and the ratio of fo’c’sle songs to higher energy numbers, and Bucky pushes Steve to add some original material in the list.  
When they finally have a set that they agree on, they run through it together, reworking the arrangements for the new instrument.  
By the second run through, a small crowd has gathered, people who have followed the sound of music or were already walking past stopping to watch them talking softly and play. There is a smattering of applause at the end of _Here’s the Tender Coming_ and Steve starts at the sound, looking up at the cluster of festival goers and elbowing Bucky in the ribs. Bucky waves at them and carries on playing. After a moment Steve follows suit.  
They finish their set and the audience clap and laugh. Bucky sets his keyboard down, gets up to take a bow and pulls Steve to his feet. Steve gives an awkward nod to the group while Bucky thanks the crowd for watching and tells them when they’ll be playing at the festival. They pack up their instruments and go back into the tent.  
Steve curls up on the bed with a sigh so Bucky climbs onto the bed and wraps his arms around him.  
“You okay?” he asks softly, linking their fingers together.  
“Mmm. Yeah. Just surprised me is all,” he murmurs.  
Bucky presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.  
“Well people are gonna stare at you, looking like that all the time”.  
Steve squirms as Bucky pokes him in the ribs.  
“Like what, exactly?” Steve challenges.  
“Beautiful,” comes the whispered response. Steve buries his face in the covers and smiles.  
“Plus there’s me, and I’m damn fine looking,” Bucky adds with a grin. Steve laughs and has to agree.

Bucky wakes up to the sound of his alarm and quickly fumbles for his phone, muting it before it wakes up Steve, who is in his usual sleeping position of wrapped around Bucky like an over-affectionate squid. Bucky gets himself untangled and slips out of bed, pulling on clothes and grabbing his bag of toiletries before heading out to the cubicles for a shower. He washes, shaves and brushes his teeth, towelling himself down before getting dressed and walking barefoot across the grass back to the bell tent. He pulls on clean socks and laces up his boots, pockets his phone and wallet and clips his walkie talkie to his belt. He kisses Steve goodbye and rearranges the covers around him before slipping out of the tent and zipping it up behind him.  
He walks across the campsite to the Fantasy Field and looks around the food stalls until he sees Scott and Kurt sat at one of the benches. He waves at them and goes to the nearby stand to order coffee and a paper cup of porridge.  
He sits down opposite Scott and scoops up a spoonful of porridge.  
“You’re on stage today, right?” Scott asks sleepily.  
“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing. “Playing the Pirate Ship tomorrow,” he adds with a grin, because fuck it. He’s playing the Pirate Ship stage.  
Kurt brightens up and Scott starts laughing. Bucky shoves another spoonful of porridge in his mouth with a smile.  
He finishes his breakfast and drinks his coffee while Scott grumbles about festival goers and their attempts to smuggle contraband onto the site.  
He drops his rubbish in a nearby bin and says goodbye before walking up to the Main stage to start his shift.

The morning is quiet. The bands don’t start until around midday, so most people are still asleep or wandering around the fields. Bucky leans against the security barrier and stares at the stage for a while. For a main stage at a festival it’s not that big, nowhere near as big as the A38 stage at Sziget. He finds that oddly comforting.  
He is staring absently at Bartons bar across the way when he notices some idiot sat on the grass in front of the stage skinning up.  
For crying out loud, how dumb do you have to be to start rolling a joint in front of a security guard? Officially he should call it in, get the police over and have the dumbass arrested, which just strikes him as a waste of time, energy and money for everyone. So he leans over the barrier and whistles at the idiot until he turns around.  
“Hey asshole,” he says cheerfully.  
The idiot looks blankly at him, so he waves his walkie talkie.  
“You wanna get arrested?” he says with a wry smirk.  
The idiot shrugs his shoulders. “Ain’t hurtin’ no one,” he mutters.  
Bucky nods at him. One of those types, eh?  
“So where’d you get it from?” he asks. The idiot frowns at him.  
“I ain’t tellin’ you, pig”.  
Bucky grins at him, a little more feral than the guy is expecting, and he flinches.  
“I get it. You got a little bit off a guy, who bought some from a guy, who bought some from a guy. But where did it come from?”  
The idiot shrugs. “Dunno”.  
“So maybe it’s from some guy in Yorkshire who’s turned his flat into a hydroponic wonderland. More likely it’s from South America or somewhere,” Bucky says a little less cheerfully.  
“So?”  
“You drink fairtrade coffee? Eat organic kale? Free range chicken?” Bucky rests his elbow on the barrier, propping his chin on the heel of his hand.  
“Uh…” the idiot starts packing his papers and roaches into his tobacco tin. “Yeah?”  
“But you’re okay with smoking shit from Bolivia grown by slaves, women snatched off the streets,” Bucky scowls. “Raped and murdered so you can get a nice little buzz?” The idiot scrambles to his feet. “That shit could be soaked in blood and you don’t have a clue,”Bucky calls out as he watches the idiot stumble away.  
“Hey, Buck”.  
God fucking damn it.  
“Hey Stevie,” he says wearily. “You catch all that?”  
Steve leans over the barrier and kisses him, much to his surprise.  
“You’re not freaked out?” he blurts out. Steve smiles at him.  
“Why would I be?” Steve says, handing him a cup of coffee and kissing him again.  
“Well, I must’ve done good,” Bucky murmurs.  
They drink coffee and talk about the gig later until the first band appears on stage, and Steve leans against the barrier to watch while Bucky keeps half an eye on the crowds.

Luis comes to relieve Bucky at the end of his shift, because Natasha is a Devil Woman who thrives on suffering. Luis hugs Bucky, then reaches over the barrier to hug Steve when he doesn’t move away fast enough. He bounces on the balls of his feet and rubs his hands together, chattering away about their gig and… at that point Bucky kind of loses the thread. Something to do with wrestling. Steve nods along, an earnest if slightly bemused smile on his face as Luis tells him about something called _Enmascarado_ and a blue demon. Bucky hooks an arm around Steve’s waist and demands food until Luis lets them go.  
They walk across the grass to the food stalls and wander around for a while before agreeing on a stand selling ‘Plant based food’, despite Bucky’s reservations at such an annoyingly hipster way of saying more-or-less-vegetarian. They take their food to the woods and sit in the shade of the trees to eat. Bucky is pretty sure that what he is eating is paneer, and flicks a couple of cubes into Steve’s vaguely Mexican heap of rice and beans.  
“What pisses you off, Buck?” Steve asks suddenly.  
Bucky pokes a blob of onion chutney. “Huh?”  
“Everything pisses me off,” Steve mutters and Bucky coughs pointedly. “Yeah, I know. But nothing gets to you,” Steve pushes the beans around in his carton. “That asshole with the weed is the first time I’ve seen you angry”.  
“Hey that’s not true,” Bucky counters. “Tipis piss me off, and hipsters”.  
Steve shakes his head and smiles at him.  
“They annoy you, but they don’t make you angry,” Steve gestures to him with his carton. “People talking shit about you doesn’t do it,” he gives him a rueful smile. “Or Idiot Boyfriends freaking out on you”.  
“Stevie…” Bucky murmurs.  
Steve nudges him gently, pressing their shoulders together.  
“Klezmer,” Bucky says after a moment. “Klezmer really pisses me off”.  
“Jewish folk music pisses you off?” Steve says with a frown. Bucky shakes his head.  
“That’s what pisses me off. It ain’t Jewish, it’s Romani”. Bucky stabs at a cube of paneer. “There were these _klezmorim_ , these musicians. They hung around with _Lãutari_ , Romani musicians. Took the rhythms, the songs, even took some of the language. Dressed themselves up as Gypsies and played the fiddle on street corners,” Bucky shakes his head. “When all those immigrants fetched up in America at the end of the nineteenth century it was still being called ‘Yiddish’ music, didn’t get called klezmer until the late ‘70’s”. Bucky scowls. “They stole Lãutari music, and now there are festivals full of assholes calling themselves klezmer and have no idea it’s Romani music they’re selling. That pisses me off”.  
Steve slips his arm around Bucky’s shoulders.  
“Yeah, that would piss me off,” Steve says softly. Bucky shrugs.  
“Ain’t all bad. People are looking into the history, Roma music is getting more attention”.  
Steve smiles and rubs a hand across Bucky’s back.  
“We should make a record,” he says with a smile. “Romani music, _The Atchin Tan, Rock a Down Romanish._ You can write long, angry sleeve notes”.  
Bucky chuckles and shakes his head.  
“I mean it,” Steve says softly. “We’ve got a studio booked for January. We could do it then?”  
Bucky bites his lip. “Okay,” he says quietly, and tries not to smile. 

They walks through the woods and across the Fantasy Field to their tent. Bucky grabs some clean clothes and goes for a quick shower while Steve changes his shirt and reads through the set list. They pack up their instruments and walk across to the Main stage, shoulders bumping together.  
They wait around backstage for the current act to finish their set and pack up their gear before climbing up onto the stage. Bucky unfolds the stand the stage piano rests on, fits the keyboard into position and plugs it into the amp. Steve manages to find him a stool from backstage while he does a quick sound check and puts his mic in position.  
He hears Luis slap his hands on the stage and glances over to see him giving a thumbs up, and waves back. Luis lets out a little yelp and bounces up and down. Steve adjusts his mic stand, strums his guitar, does his own sound check and they’re ready. They glance at each other and Steve grins at him, and Bucky can’t help but smile back.  
Bucky flexes his fingers and counts his breaths, shifting on his stool and rechecking the settings on the keyboard. He glances up at the gathered crowd. Fuck, that’s a lot of people. Steve calls out a greeting and a response ripples through the crowd. A few voices shout for Bucky and he raises a hand, which gets him a handful of whoops and cheers, and a lot of yelling from Luis. Bucky rubs a hand over his face.  
Steve starts talking to the crowd, he doesn’t do his usual patter of getting the crowd to shout ‘Arrr!’, instead he tells the story of Admiral Nelson being preserved in a barrel of brandy, and launches into _A Drop of Nelson’s Blood_. Bucky follows closely, his fingers moving smoothly over the keys and providing the harmonies. Steve follows with an original song, and Bucky keeps his fingers still, sitting back on his stool while watching Steve perform. They follow with _The Turkish Revelry_ , Bucky keeping the accompaniment as sparse as the strum of guitar, listening and playing in equal measure. When Steve asks the audience if they want to hear Bucky sing. The crowd claps and cheers, and Luis drums his hands on the stage. Bucky clears his throat and sings The Atchin Tan, his voice steady and low. When the song ends he barely even hears the applause, just sees Steve watching him with so much pride he can hardly breathe. Bucky shakes his head and clears his throat, and they join together to sing _Here’s the Tender Coming_.  
Steve talks about sailor songs and teaches the crowd the response part of _Blood Red Roses_ before launching into the song, Bucky struggles to keep his voice even while Luis and what sounds suspiciously like Scott are really getting into the song. They follow with a couple of short haul shanties before _Shenandoah_ , their voices rising and blending together, sweet and low. Bucky finishes the set with _The Long and the Short_ , much to the crowds delight. They say their thank you’s and goodbyes, and pack up their gear while the crowd clap and yell, waving as they head backstage.  
Bucky has to sit on the grass for a minute while the crowd clap their hands and sing ‘Fuck ‘em all’ with an enthusiasm that is slightly terrifying. Steve sits down next to him and they listen to the singing.  
“We were really good,” Bucky mutters, a little bit shellshocked. Steve chuckles and slides an arm around his waist.  
“Figured that out, did you?” he says.

They watch the next artist set up and Steve pulls Bucky to his feet. They make their way out of the backstage area, across the field and back to their tent to drop off their instruments before heading back out to the festival.  
Steve insists on buying churros to eat while they walk around and Bucky insists on beer. They wander over to the Commune to see the flower of fire, though they avoid the drumming workshops and the laughter yoga, which Bucky is pretty sure is not a real thing.  
Steve links their fingers together and leads Bucky across the grass back to their campsite, unzipping the bell tent and leading the way in. He kicks off his shoes and turns on the LED lanterns while Bucky zips the tent closed and takes off his boots.  
Bucky empties out his pockets and drops his walkie talkie on the table before stalking over to where Steve is standing by the bed and pulling him into an embrace. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and lets out a soft sigh when Bucky kisses his throat, gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it up. Steve lifts his arms up enough for Bucky to tug the shirt over his head, pulling free of the sleeves and dropping the bundle on the floor while Bucky runs hands over his shoulders and kisses him, light and teasing.  
Steve trails his fingers down Bucky’s sides, plucking at his t-shirt until Bucky pulls back enough to strip it off in one quick motion before sliding his arms around Steve’s waist and kissing him, taking his plump lower lip between his teeth and nibbling until Steve lets out a soft gasp and Bucky flicks his tongue between his lips.  
Bucky kisses slow and deep, thumbs tucked into the waistband of Steve’s khakis and pushing down, fabric bunching around his hips while Steve brushes his fingers across Bucky’s shoulders, the nape of his neck, the curve of his jaw. Bucky scrapes his teeth against Steve’s tongue, smiling against his mouth as he whimpers and presses back, teeth clicking together. Steve kicks off his khakis and boxers and clumsily works open Bucky’s jeans, pressing the heel of his hand against him and making Bucky shudder and curse. Bucky nips at Steve’s mouth and pushes him towards the bed, pausing to peel off his jeans and briefs before following.  
Bucky tackles Steve to the mattress and laughs breathlessly as they pinch at each other, fingers digging into ribs and under arms until Steve pins Bucky down and kisses him, hands twined in his dark hair while Bucky sucks on his tongue and swallows his soft moans. Bucky strokes down Steve’s back and twists, rolling them over until Steve is on his back, Bucky straddling him. He rests his weight on his hands and thrusts, sliding their lengths together and cursing softly under his breath while Steve grasps his hips and rocks against him, whispering his name over and over as Bucky presses kisses to his throat.  
Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, thrusting up and shuddering when he comes. He grips Bucky by the waist and urges him into movement, and Bucky kisses him, clumsy and slick and desperate until he swears loudly and follows.  
Steve slowly catches his breath, running his fingers down the notches of Bucky’s spine, his calloused palms grazing against skin while Bucky presses kisses to his jaw, fingers curling in his hair.  
“I need a shower,” he murmurs finally against Bucky’s damp skin.  
“Tough,” Bucky rumbles, tightening the fingers still buried in Steve’s hair. “Not moving”.  
He chuckles and runs his hands across Bucky’s shoulders, skin warm under his hands.  
“C’mon, let me up,” he laughs.  
“Fuck off,” Bucky mumbles into his shoulder, though there is only amusement in his voice.  
Steve snorts and cleans them up with a corner of the bedsheet, shushing Bucky when he grumbles sleepily and dragging a quilt over them both. He traces pattern on Bucky’s skin with his fingertips until he falls asleep.

Bucky wakes up first, his face buried in the crook of Steve’s neck, knee tucked between his calves, Steve’s arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders. He feels sore and sticky, but reluctant to move. He dozes for a while, lulled by the steady, slow heartbeat against his own until his bladder decided to make itself known. He grumbles to himself but eases out of Steve’s arms and shuffles out from under the covers, careful not to wake him. Or burst his damn kidneys.  
He pulls the covers back over Steve and turns off the LED lights, moving quietly around the tent as he gets dressed. He grabs his toiletries and slips outside, leaving enough of a gap in the entrance to let some air flow.  
He pads across the damp grass barefoot to the cubicles, then takes a long shower, lingering under the warm water before brushing his teeth and shaving.  
He dresses and walks back to the tent, wet hair dripping water down his back. He pulls on clean socks and laces up his boots, grabbing his phone and wallet and heading out again to look for coffee.  
The sun is up, though the campsites are quiet but for a few early risers. He finds a food van and buys coffee and waffles, carrying them back to the tent. He expects Steve to still be asleep, but he’s curled up in the quilt, scrolling through his phone. He glances up as Bucky comes in, still rumpled and sleepy-eyed.  
Bucky sets the coffee and waffles on the table and lies down, lifting up his arm so Steve can wrap around him and settling his hand on the nape of his neck.  
“Anything?” he asks Steve.  
Bucky doesn’t have much of a clue when it comes to social media, leaving that kind of thing to Steve, though he has his own Instagram account after hijacking Steve’s once too often. He’ll be in the cold ground before he joins Twitter, and has said as much whenever Steve has suggested it.  
Steve holds up his phone and shows Bucky a picture he tweeted last night, luckily of him drinking beer and watching the pyrotechnic display rather than unconscious and drooling on Steve’s shoulder. A slightly terrifying number of people have liked the picture.  
“Yeah. Good reviews, looking forward to the Pirate Ship,” Steve says.  
“Anyone telling us we’ll burn in hell?” Bucky asks with a smirk. Steve tends to respond to those with a thumbs up or, if they’ve pissed him off, one of his extensive collection of tasteful but suggestive pictures of the two of them in various states of undress.  
“Hmm,” Steve thumbs through his notifications. “No”.  
“Damn,” Bucky mutters and Steve chuckles into his shoulder.

They drink their coffees and eat their breakfast, and Bucky finally hustles Steve out of bed and off to the shower. While he waits for Steve to return he pulls the stage piano on to the bed and plays around with the settings, sitting cross-legged with it resting in his lap while he works out an arrangement for _Innocent When You Dream_. He glances up when he hears a soft sound and see’s Steve in the doorway watching him, his eyes bright. Bucky pushes the keyboard away and gestures for him to come closer, and Steve climbs onto the bed beside him. Bucky folds his arms around Steve’s broad shoulders and pulls him close, his hair still damp from his shower and soaking Bucky’s shoulder.  
“You okay?” Bucky murmurs. Steve smiles and nods, curling hands around Bucky’s hips.  
“Yeah. I just…” he presses his face to Bucky’s neck. “ _Voliv tut_ ”.  
_“Voliv tut mai but_ ,” Bucky answers softly and pats him on the back.  
“C’mon, some asshole got us roped into a gig,” he says cheerfully. “What are we playing?”  
Steve grumbles and fetches his guitar and notebook, and they sit together on the bed and figure out the setlist. They’re only on stage for half an hour, so they focus on halyard and short haul shanties, leaving out the slower fo’c’sle songs altogether. They take their instruments outside and sit on the grass in the sunshine to run through the set, bickering affectionately and elbowing each other as they play.  
When they have run through the set twice they pack their instruments away and walk down the campsite to get some coffee and stretch their legs. They see Scott on patrol duty and go over to say hi. His outfit is a comic book character from the sixties, though to Bucky it resembles a biker suit with a misshapen crash helmet. They walk with Scott on his route for a while before heading back to their tent to get changed.

Bucky debates having another shower on the off chance that he’ll slip and crack his skull, or maybe fake a heart attack. Anything to get out of wearing a damned costume. But Steve gives him a pointed look and hands over the clothing bag. He unzips the plastic covering and pulls out the coat. It is… nowhere near as terrible as he was expecting. It doesn’t have epaulettes or brass buttons or lapels, or a pattern that belongs on wallpaper in National Trust properties. The heavy fabric is emerald with a darker green square pattern, collarless and cut to mid calf. He tries it on and… Yeah. Pretty good. He holds his arms up.  
“How do I look?” he grins at Steve. “Not too Interview With the Vampire?”  
Steve shakes his head, biting his lower lip and Bucky’s grin turns predatory. He stalks closer to Steve while he’s struggling with the zip on his own clothing bag. Steve spots him and skitters out of the way.  
“Pack it in, Buck,” he yells, the tips of his ears turning pink.  
Bucky cackles and takes off the coat. “This is not over,” he says with a sly grin.  
Steve rolls his eyes and starts getting changed, swapping his usual grey t-shirt for a white button up shirt. Bucky fetches his least ragged pair of charcoal jeans out of his backpack and a plain black t-shirt and gets changed. He pulls the green coat back on and combs his fingers through his hair, turning around to ask Steve if he looks okay.  
The words die in his throat as Steve adjusts the sleeves on a blue jacquard frock coat, knee length, diamond patterned and with more silver buttons that really necessary. Steve glances up and flushes pink.  
“Does it look okay?” he asks nervously.  
Bucky nods and it’s suddenly all too much, so he has to sit on the bed and have a chuckle to himself. Steve watches him for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips before tipping his head back and laughing, hands pressed to his chest like he’s afraid that something will burst. It’s the most beautiful thing Bucky has ever heard. He pulls himself off the bed and drags Steve into his arms, hugging him tightly. Steve holds him just as close, and they rock back and forth until Bucky starts humming _Blow the Man Down_ and they start laughing again.  
They take a few moments to pull themselves together and collect their belongings, picking up their instruments and heading outside. Steve slips his hand into Bucky’s, interlacing their fingers as they walk south to the Wishing Tree field.

The Pirate Ship stage is the most ridiculous and wonderful thing Bucky has seen. A miniature galleon built out of plywood with a long beak at the fore, sails, masts and rigging. there is even a platform halfway up the mizzenmast accessible by wooden ladder. The stage is maybe ten meters wide, reaching across the deck from bow to stern with a separate raised platform on the back of the ship.  
They climb up onto the deck and set up, plugging their instruments into the amps and doing their sound checks while a crowd gathers around the stage. There are festival goers dressed as pirates in the crowd, Highwaymen and sailors jostling together and roaring joyfully. Steve adjusts his guitar and glances at Bucky, who nods and grins, and they’re ready.  
Steve has done his stage patter enough times now for it to be second nature. He goads the crowd into shouting ‘Arr’ before launching into _Boney Was a Warrior_. He gives a quick talk on sea shanties and teaches the crowd the response part of _Blood Red Roses_ , which they sing with enthusiasm while Bucky plays accompaniment and Steve drums on his guitar. They follow with a handful of short haul shanties in quick succession, the audience picking up the lyrics quickly and singing along, waving their plastic cutlasses and tricorn hats. Steve settles them down and tells the story of Admiral Nelson and they play _A Drop of Nelson’s Blood_ before thanking the crowd for coming and saying goodbye.  
They pack up quickly and climb down from the stage, the cheering and singing deafening, and make a run for it back to the tent, stowing their instruments away before heading back out. They keep the ridiculous coats.

They walk back down to the festival to watch the fancy dress parade. There are robots and astronauts, animals and vegetables, and Bucky feels pleasantly underdressed as they walk along. They see Kurt in a spectacular blue sequined jumpsuit with a group of a dozen other people in Elvis costumes, singing and dancing together. Clint is in the parade wearing a Robin Hood Costume complete with green tights, and at that moment Bucky decides he need alcohol. A lot of alcohol.  
They spend the afternoon wandering around drinking terribly named cider and pointing out costumes to each other until a small, excitable Mexican wrestler in a blue spandex bodysuit and devil mask comes running over and knocks Bucky to the ground.  
It takes him several seconds to realise it’s Luis, mostly because muggers don’t spend so much time shouting at you and hugging you.  
“Luis, man, let me up!” Bucky manages to gasp.  
Luis rolls off him and helps him up to his feet. And, because Bucky is a terrible human being, he directs Luis’ attentions to Steve, who pales and steps backwards.  
“No, really. Luis. No!” he stutters as Luis chases after him.  
“C’mon dude,” Luis cackles and takes him down. “Fuck, man. You work out?” Luis pokes Steve in the chest. “Abs of fuckin’ steel here!”  
Bucky cracks up laughing while Steve blushes furiously as Luis prods him and compliments Bucky on his excellent taste in men.  
“Alright, Luis,” Bucky says finally. “Let him up”.  
Bucky gives Steve a hand up and Bucky drags them across the field to get burritos.  
After dinner Luis hugs them both and goes off to do his evening shift. Bucky feels a brief pang of sympathy for the Chemical Brothers, who’ll be performing with a blue lycra clad Mexican wrestler for security. He’s pretty sure the audience will take it in stride.  
Bucky takes Steve to see the Bollywood stage, not so much for the music, which is a slightly disappointing mix of left field electronic and chillout, but the flamethrowing elephant statues are impressive.  
Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and kisses the sensitive skin behind his ear, so Bucky grabs him by his ridiculous coat and drags him back toward their ridiculous tent.

They stumble across the grass in the fading light, finding the tent and letting themselves in. Bucky turns on the lanterns while Steve sits on the edge of the bed and gestures for him to come closer. Bucky lets himself be pulled between Steve's parted knees, resting his hands in his blonds hair and curling his fingers, ducking his head to share light, teasing kisses. Steve grips Bucky’s hips and presses his thumb to the crease of his thighs, sliding fingers over the waistband and slowly unfastening his jeans.  
Bucky lets out a soft breath as Steve pulls down the zip and peels away the denim, lowering his head to press his mouth against his clothed length and sucking gently. Bucky strokes fingers through short hair, cradling his skull while Steve tugs down his briefs and licks him from base to tip, flicking his tongue over the crown. Bucky gasps and tries to keep still, keeping his touch light and gentle as he strokes hands over Steve’s shoulders. Steve closes his mouth over the crown and presses forward, flattening his tongue and pressing it to the shaft, closing his hand around the base and sucking, hollowing his cheeks, as Bucky digs fingers into his shoulders and curses softly. Steve pulls back to press his tongue to the frenulum and then he twists his wrist, wrapping his lips around the head and sucking. Bucky twitches and gasps Steve's name, hands grasping at his broad shoulders. Steve bobs his head and sucks, and Bucky tugs on his hair in warning before he comes, whimpering as Steve swallows around him and pulls off.  
Bucky cradles Steve’s face in his hands, tipping his head back and kissing him, deep and rough while Steve strokes hands up under his t-shirt. He tastes himself, salty and bitter on Steve’s tongue, pushing him further onto the bed and straddling his lap, knees sinking into the mattress.  
Bucky pulls back and presses gentle kisses to Steve’s mouth, nipping at his lower lip while he unfastens the buttons of his shirt, stroking over Steve’s chest, thumbs teasing his nipples while Steve shudders and flicks his tongue into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky teases his tongue, dragging fingernails over the pebbled areola and making Steve moan before sliding his hand down to his waistband and unbuttoning his khakis, thumbing down the zipper and pushing down his boxers. Steve whimpers into his mouth as Bucky grasps his length, working his hand slowly along the shaft and swiping a thumb over the head. Steve kisses him clumsily as Bucky slides his free hand into blond hair, massaging his scalp. Steve grasps him by the waist, fingers twisting in his t-shirt as Bucky pumps his wrist, feels the catch in Steve’s breath before he shudders and spills over his fist.  
Steve lets out a whimper when he sees Bucky lick his fingers clean and drags him down to the bed while Bucky presses their mouths together, his smile broad and bright.

Bucky wakes up to the sound of his alarm and fumbles for his phone, thumbing it open and silencing the alert before shoving it under his pillow. He yawns and rubs his eyes, jostling Steve in his sleep who grumbles against Bucky’s shoulder and tightens his grip. Damned octopus.  
“C’mon, Stevie,” he murmurs. “I gotta work”.  
Steve grouses but loosens his grip enough for Bucky to climb out of bed, grabbing yesterday's shirt and jeans off the floor and pulling them on. He picks up his toiletries and slips out of the tent, slipping on his shoes and padding across the damp grass to the cubicles to shower and shave. He returns to the tent to put on clean clothes, tucking his phone and wallet into his pockets and clipping his walkie talkie to his belt. He sits on the bed and tugs at the quilts until he finds Steve, pressing a kiss to his cheek and rearranging the blankets around him before heading out to the festival.  
Bucky traipses across the grass to the Fantasy Field to buy coffee and a paper cup of porridge from one of the food stalls, sitting down at a bench to eat. The morning is quiet but for a few festival workers and solitary raver dancing in front of the Main stage.  
He is finishing his coffee when Scott thunks down on the bench next to him, thankfully no longer wearing his superhero costume.  
“Hey, Sailor,” Scott says cheerfully. Bucky grins at him.  
“Please tell me Luis is wearing clothes again,” he asks.  
Scott nods.“God, that was awkward. Spandex doesn’t leave much to the imagination,” Scott shrugs. “He’s got good form though, if the security thing doesn’t work out”.  
Bucky chokes on his coffee and Scott slaps him on the back.  
They chat for a while before Bucky heads off to his shift, walking down the road to the main entrance. Probably Dave is working the gate, thankfully not dressed as anything disturbing. They say hello to each other and Bucky sends him off to eat and/or pass out somewhere.

The morning passes quietly, a few people going back and forth into town to load up on food and drink. Bucky should check their water bottles for hastily syphoned vodka, but doesn’t see the harm in it and waves people through. A couple of people ask for a picture with him or an autograph, which he is happy to give, even if he finds the whole thing ridiculous but… nice actually.  
Steve comes up the road after lunch with a bottle of water and a bagel for him. They lean against the gate and watch the festival in the distance, talking softly about the upcoming tour, pausing to let people through the gate, and take pictures with the people who recognise them.  
Bucky half expects to feel some sort of melancholy. The way things are going, he’s probably not going to be doing much security work in the future. But he feels joy, like a glass too full that would spill over at the slightest touch. He slides his arms around Steve’s waist and kisses him, slow and sweet. Steve leans into him, calloused fingers tracing the line of his jaw.  
“What was that for?” Steve murmurs and Bucky shakes his head.  
“ _Drágo_ ,” he says by way of explanation and Steve kisses him back.  
“Get a room, you guys!”  
Bucky doesn’t flinch, and lets Steve pull away at his own pace before turning round to see Luis grinning at them, waving his hand. He is wearing actual clothes, thank fuck.  
“Hey, don’t stop on my account,” he says cheerfully.  
Bucky lets go of Steve long enough to give Luis a hug, startling him which has to be a goddamned first.  
“Give me a shout when you’re back in London, yeah?” Bucky says in his ear.  
Luis grins at him.“Yeah, man. We’ll check out the National Gallery”.  
Bucky shakes his head.“Nope,” he says firmly. “Beer. Drinking of”.  
Steve laughs. “Luis, I’ll go to the National Gallery with you”.  
Luis lunges at him with a yelp.  
“We’ll go see the Monet,” he agrees while Steve pats him on the back.  
They say their goodbyes and Bucky slides his arm around Steve’s waist and guides him down the road before they start talking Renaissance art and he’ll have to kill himself.  
“C’mon, Stevie,” he says softly. “Let’s go home”.

They walk back to their tent and pack up their gear, stuffing clothes and books into their bags and checking they’ve left nothing behind. They carry their bags and instruments down to the car park to load up Steve’s old hatchback and Bucky suggests a last walk around the festival.  
They tangle their fingers together and walk across the fields, past the stages and merchandise stalls until they reach the security cabin. Natasha is sat at her desk working through police reports. She glances up when Bucky knocks on the doorframe and smiles at them both, holding up a sheet of paper.  
“They get dumber every year, Barnes”.  
Bucky chuckles and hands over his walkie talkie. Natasha drops it in a box on the desk and finishes her report. She gets Bucky’s signature and hands over his wages.  
“See you next year,” she asks with a raised eyebrow.  
“One way or another,” Bucky says with a grin. “What about you?”  
Natasha shrugs. “Going to Greece for a couple of weeks. Look at some old stuff”.  
She comes over to give Bucky a hug when he grins at her.  
“Let him spoil you a bit, okay?” he murmurs in her ear. She jabs him in the ribs but nods quietly.  
They walk across the fields through the festival and back to the car. Bucky pushes Steve against the sun warmed door and kisses him, slow and easy while Steve slides calloused fingers under the hem of his t-shirt and kisses back, languid and sweet.  
They climb into the car and Steve starts the engine, bumping along the grass to the road and turning east.  
Bucky slumps in his seat and closes his eyes, flinching when Steve pinches his leg.  
“You asleep, Buck”.  
“Yes, fuck off,” he mutters while Steve laughs and squeezes his thigh, letting his hand rest there, warm and heavy against the worn denim.  
Bucky blinks and looks out the window at the fields of lavender. He talks softly of the Lavender Sellers of Mitcham Common, carrying baskets of flowers door to door. His grandmother singing, a basket of flowers on her hip.  
When Steve asks him to sing he does, his voice soft and low.

_Will you buy my sweet blooming lavender  
For there’s sixteen blue branches for one penny  
All in full bloom_


End file.
